Si 


DIANE 


Historical  Series 


DIANE 

MISSISSIPPI     VALLEY 

By 

KATHERINE  HOLLAND  BROWN 

ILLUSTRATED   BY   S.  J.   DUDLEY 


York 
Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 

1906 


Copyright,  1904,  by 
Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 
Published,  October,  1904 


Wb 

H.  S.  B. 

AND 

J.  E.  B. 

PATIENT  COLLABORATOR, 
AND     TENDER     CRITIC. 


M578525 


CONTENTS 


:HAPT£K 

PAW 

I. 

The  City  of  Dreams 

3 

II. 

The  Architect 

.       16 

III. 

The  Place  of  Red  Crosses 

•         •       36 

IV. 

The  Voice  of  the  Rapids 

.         .      46 

V. 

A  Little  Brother  to  the  Trees 

•         •       64 

VI. 

Voila  La  Commune  ! 

•       74 

VTT 

Th*»  Amber  Dav 

.            .       IO2 

T  X  JL  • 

VIII 

The  Price 

i2* 

V  J.XX  • 

IX. 

The  Path  of  the  Underground 

•    143 

X. 

Madame          .... 

.     166 

XI. 

A  Brotherhood  of  Impulse     . 

.     173 

XII. 

Respite  

.         .     183 

XIII. 

Rough  Water 

.     199 

XIV. 

The  Hour  Before  the  Dawn    . 

.     an 

XV. 

Broken  Cables 

.     225 

XVI. 

The  Brink      .... 

.     240 

XVII. 

The  Pilgrims  of  '56 

•     *53 

XVIII. 

Doom     

.     281 

XIX. 

An  Account  of  Losses     . 

.     300 

XX. 

Dreams  and  a  Wakening 

.     321 

XXI. 

Triumph         .... 

•     340 

XXII. 

The  House  of  Peace 

•     357 

XXIII. 

Rose       

•         •     383 

XXIV. 

The  Closing  Door  . 

.     400 

XXV. 

The  Rending  of  the  Veil 

•    423 

vu 


DIANE 


DIANE 

CHAPTER  I 
THE  CITY  OF  DREAMS 

MISS  ROSE!    Oh,  Miss  Rose!    Watch  out 
for  the  marshy  places,  now.    That  bank 
is   half    quicksand.     You'd    better    keep 
still  till  I  can  reach  you.     Where  in  the  world  are 
you,  anyway?" 

Rose  clung  to  a  friendly  willow  and  swayed  back, 
breathless.  Her  long  blue  Talma  was  splashed 
and  stained  with  yellow  river  clay ;  her  little  morocco 
shoes  were  mired  to  the  ankle  ribbons.  She  swept 
the  ripple  of  black  curls  out  of  her  eyes  and  laughed 
impishly  at  young  Palmer  as  he  scrambled  ashore 
and  beached  the  skiff,  then  turned  towards  her,  to 
blunder  straightway  into  the  green,  gay,  treacherous 
bank.  He  took  a  second  step;  it  carried  him  still 
deeper;  a  third,  which  caught  his  knees.  Then 
he  floundered.  First  with  dignity;  then  with 
heaving  shoulders  and  scarlet  ears. 

"  If  you'd  just  followed  me,  Sydney " 

Rose  bit  her  lips  on  her  unfeeling  comment,  and 
slipped  away  around  the  hill.  He  could  clamber 
out  unaided ;  she  would  not  add  to  his  discomfiture 

3 


4  Diane 

by  staying  to  sympathise.  And  then  she  could 
not  wait;  this  very  moment  she  must  see  all  the 
delight  that  the  wooded  slope  still  hid  from  her. 
She  ran  on,  laughing;  the  wet  spring  wind  beat  in 
her  face,  cold  and  sweet  and  soft  as  down.  But  one 
week  ago,  the  last  gray  ice-crust  had  swirled  away 
down  the  eager  river.  Now  the  turf  sank  like 
drenched  velvet  beneath  the  foot;  the  air  flickered 
with  bird-calls.  All  the  winds  of  March  leaped 
and  shouted  over  the  round,  brown  hills ;  but  when 
one  stood  in  full  sunlight,  it  was  a  nestling  day, 
stolen  from  under  the  breast  of  June. 

Rose  pulled  herself  cautiously  up  the  last  twisting 
shelf.  Ah,  there  it  was,  that  mighty  sweep  of 
hurtling  river,  that  endless  golden  lift  of  circling 
hill!  It  was  even  more  beautiful  than  they  had 
promised  her.  But  what  could  the  village  be  that 
crowned  those  far  heights  ?  No  frontier  settlement, 
surely.  True,  the  houses  were  for  the  most  part 
poor  and  plain;  through  this  crystalline  air,  she 
could  discern  even  the  rough,  winter-blackened  logs, 
the  red  of  low  chimneys.  But  in  their  midst 
reared  a  great  shattered  bulk;  an  Old- World  ruin; 
an  uncouth  palace,  heaped  together  like  a  child's 
block-house,  marred  with  staring  windows,  daubed 
with  futile  ornament;  a  plaything,  yet  a  plaything 
for  giants;  hideous,  yet  so  vast  that  the  eye  sank 
bewildered  before  its  soaring  majesty. 

"Whatever  can  it  be— oh !  The  old  Temple! 
But  how  strange  that  there  should  be  a  town  there 


The  Qty  of  Dreams  5 

still !  And  such  little,  little  houses,  all  set  in 
rows,  precisely  alike.  It's  just  like  a  toy  town.  I 
wonder " 

"The  City  of  Dreams,  if  you  will,  Mademoiselle." 

The  voice  was  near  and  very  sweet.  But  it 
rippled  with  all  the  mockery  of  a  teasing  bird-note. 

Rose  gasped.  She  looked  behind,  to  right,  to 
left.  She  leaned  far  over  the  hill  shelf  and  called 
down.  Only  the  river's  murmur  answered  her. 
The  voice  must  have  come  from  this  wooded  bluff; 
yet  the  slope  was  too  steep  to  hold  a  human  foot, 
and  the  bare  branches  could  not  hide  even  the 
broken  nests  which  still  clung  to  them.  Rose 
caught  herself  looking  to  right  and  left  again, 
strung  with  keen,  furtive  wonder.  Then  she  bit 
her  lip;  the  red  flared  deeper  in  her  round  cheek. 
If  this  was  some  of  Sydney's  nonsense,  he  should 
pay  for  it !  But  a  peep  down  the  farther  slope 
showed  Sydney  perched  on  a  log,  laboriously 
scraping  the  mud  from  his  slim  army  boots,  with  a 
concern  which  promised  long  delay. 

"I  didn't  imagine  it,  either,"  snapped  Rose, 
obstinately.  "It  was  a  real  voice,  though  it 
sounded  like  a  call  through  a  flute,  it  was  so  far 
and  clear.  The  City  of  Dreams!" 

"So  we  who  are  awake  call  it.  But  there  are 
those  who  still  sleep.  And  to  them  it  is  the  New 
Paradise ;  the  World  of  all  Justice ;  the  Palace  of  all 
Joy.  Where  each  yields  up  all,  yet  possesses  all; 
where  man  toils  not  for  himself,  but  for  his  brother; 


6  Diane 

where  one  knows  not  pride  nor  jealousy,  hate  nor 
greed.  The  New  Paradise,  I  have  said?  Also  the 
Kingdom  of  Love  and  Reason,  Mademoiselle. 
Voila  la  Commune!" 

Rose  set  her  teeth.  The  rim  of  climbing  hills 
wavered  and  dimmed  before  her  eyes.  She  spoke 
her  name  over,  loudly  and  grimly,  as  though  she 
would  rouse  herself  from  some  wayward  dream. 
"I  am  Rose  Faulkner.  This  is  the  year  1856. 
This  is  the  State  of  Illinois.  I  am  Rose  Faulkner." 

"Enchantee,  Mademoiselle  la  Rose!" 

Rose  whirled  about,  with  a  stifled  cry.  The 
voice  rang  now  from  above,  sparkling  with  eerie 
laughter,  piercing  sweet.  She  stared  upward:  the 
red  flowed  back  into  her  lips. 

On  a  shelf  of  the  rock  above  he  sat;  a  slim, 
blanched  twig  of  a  child,  golden-haired,  his  chin 
braced  on  both  tiny  palms,  his  wide  shadowed 
eyes  alight.  A  birch  flute  lay  on  the  rock  beside 
him ;  an  armful  of  pussy-willow,  all  silvering  velvet 
on  their  ebon  staffs,  were  heaped  at  his  feet. 
Another  staff  lay  beside  them;  a  fairy  thing  of 
carven  wood,  its  ivory  arm-brace  wrought  in  cun 
ning  knots  and  flowers  by  tenderest  hands.  And 
Rose's  heart  melted  to  love  and  pity  as  she  saw. 

"Why  did  you  startle  me  so,  little  man?  Who 
are  you?  Where  did  you  come  from?  What  is 
the  Commune?" 

"All  in  a  breath,  Mademoiselle?"  he  queried, 
sweetly.  His  peaked,  small  face  gleamed  and 


The  Qty  of  Dreams  7 

fleeted  with  expression,  like  light  across  a  burnished 
pool;  his  tiny  body  rocked  with  exultant  mischief. 
"Alas  that  I  have  frightened  you!  I  make  myself 
desolated  for  shame.  But  the  temptation,  Made 
moiselle  la  Rose!" 

"  I  don't  see  why  in  the  world  I  didn't  notice  you." 
Rose  grew  mildly  resentful.  "  I  looked  up  on  that 
rock  over  and  over." 

"Because  that  I  have  borrowed  the  ruse  of  my 
brother,  the  field-mouse.  Regard!"  He  dropped 
flat  on  the  ground,  pulling  his  soft  skin  cap  to  his 
ears.  Against  the  brown,  clay-mottled  stone,  his 
pixie  body  in  its  quaint  blouse  and  stockings  of 
nankeen  showed  no  more  than  a  fallen  branch. 

"  I  see  now.     But  the  voice " 

"It  came  from  the  slope?  Ah,  yes.  That  was 
my  flute,  my  mock-bird.  With  him  I  can  deceive 
even  his  brothers  themselves."  He  blew  a  quaver 
ing  call,  and  grimaced  delight  as  an  anxious  thrush 
cried  warning  from  the  bluff  beyond.  "For  your 
other  questions,  Mademoiselle.  Moi,  I  am  Petit  Clef. 
And  I  am  of  the  Commune.  And  behold  yonder 
the  Commune!" 

Rose  stared  perplexed  at  the  little  town,  high 
on  its  crested  hills. 

"The  Mormon  Temple  puzzles  you?  Ah,  we 
have  naught  to  do  with  it.  The  Temple  has  had  its 
day.  For  us  it  is  but  a  quarry,  is  it  not  so  ?  From 
it  we  have  taken  the  great  blocks  of  limestone  to 
build  our  school,  to  make  foundation  for  our  fac- 


8  Diane 

tories.  For  we  ourselves  have  no  need  of  a  temple. 
We  are  the  sons  of  Reason,  Mademoiselle.  We 
know  not  worship.  We  know  not  God.  Unless — 
but  let  that  go.  Yonder  stands  our  Phalanstery, 
that  great  house  of  wood,  with  the  rope-walk 
beyond  it,  and  the  gardens  at  the  side.  Without, 
it  is  rough,  coarse,  a  shell.  Within,  it  is  all  beauty, 
all  glory,  decked  with  our  best,  the  dearest  treasures 
that  each  one  can  bring ;  for  it  is  the  heart,  the  very 
soul  of  our  Commune  life.  Beyond  it— there  lie 
our  shops;  at  the  foot  of  that  last  slope— see?  the 
great  mill,  which  is  our  pride.  And  on  the  crest  of 
the  hill,  that  smallest  dwelling,  with  the  door  of 
white  and  the  vine  gateway — can  you  not  discern? 
There  is  the  house  of  our  leader,  our  prophet;  of 
the  all-seeing,  the  all- wise;  le  Pere  Cabet." 

"Le  Pere  Cabet?" 

The  brown  eyes  narrowed  and  glinted  with  dis 
dain.  "  It  is  that  Mademoiselle  had  no  love  for  her 
History?"  he  pondered,  sweetly.  "Else  would  she 
know  of  the  great  Cabet,  that  son  of  Liberty,  born 
when  the  Great  Revolution  first  thundered,  bred 
up  beneath  its  night  ?  Strange  seeds  were  planted 
then,  Mademoiselle.  Strange  fruits  have  grown 
from  them.  And  Etienne  Cabet  has  eaten;  and 
since  has  he  gone  dreaming.  There  you  may  behold 
his  dream  made  real." 

Rose  shut  her  hands  over  her  bewildered  eyes. 
Could  she  wake  or  sleep  ? 

"He  was  born  to  all  things,"  the  child  chirped 


The  Qty  of  Dreams  9 

on,  his  face  overflowing  with  whimsical  delight  at 
her  amaze.  "Therefore  were  all  these  things 
granted  him.  He  has  been  pupil  of  Jacotot,  favour 
ite  of  Proudhon;  he  has  been  Deputy;  he,  son  to  a 
cooper !  And  he  has  thrown  these  trappings  all 
away,  for  that  they  held  him  back  from  following 
this  mirage  that  has  ever  gleamed  before  him.  He 
has  left  his  France,  his  life,  to  make  it  real  in  the 
New  World,  this  vision  beloved.  There  he  will 
found  a  nation  upon  the  broad  ground  of  Equality. 
All  shall  possess,  all  shall  labour  in  common;  each 
shall  give  according  to  his  powers ;  each  shall  receive 
according  to  his  needs.  There  shall  be  justice, 
freedom,  right,  to  every  soul.  There  shall  be  no 
curse  of  money;  there  shall  be  no  poverty,  because 
no  wealth.  There  shall  be  no  fear.  And  when  you 
have  spoken  that,  Mademoiselle,  you  have  spoken 
all." 

Rose  fumbled  helplessly  for  his  meanings.  Dim 
shadows  of  recollection  flitted  across  her  mind. 
The  Commune — the  Pere  Cabet — what  was  it  that 
her  father  had  said  that  very  morning?  That  she 
should  be  careful,  and  not  go  to  the  village  alone; 
that  the  town  was  now  occupied  by  a  parcel  of 
mad  Frenchmen,  Communists,  anarchists,  probably, 
who  had  come  to  America  in  search  of  a  free  field 
for  their  lawless  enterprises  ?  She  remembered  his 
blustering  command,  Sydney's  irreverent  laughter. 
And  Channing — what  was  it  Channing  had  cried  out  ? 
That  it  was  not  true;  that  these  men  were  peace- 


io  Diane 

able  and  law-abiding  citizens;  fanatics,  perhaps, 
but  none  the  less  innocent  and  worthy.  Through 
the  noisy  argument  that  followed  he  had  defended 
them  with  a  furious  championship  which  had 
amazed  her  beyond  words.  In  all  her  life  she  had 
never  seen  Channing,  easy  Channing,  so  strung  with 
unreasoning  anger.  Probably  the  people  were  well 
enough,  for  that  matter.  Ignorant,  to  be  sure ;  but 
deserving.  Yet  how  could  it  matter  to  Channing? 

"We  who  have  taken  him  as  Guide  have  left 
many  things  behind  us,"  the  child  went  on,  softly 
as  if  he  gossiped  with  his  flute,  alone.  "But 
we  have  brought  much,  besides.  Our  friends, 
the  best  among  his  followers ;  for  they  are  ever  the 
bravest.  We  have  kept  the  spirit  of  that  body 
which  we  have  had  to  yield.  We  have  our  music 
and  our  tales;  our  readings;  our  theatre.  Tiny? 
A  toy,  a  bonbon,  Mademoiselle;  yet  to  our  eyes  of 
pride,  a  hall  sublime.  We  have  held  ourselves 
choicely;  we  may  have  starved,  now  and  then — 
that  did  not  matter.  We  have  lived  our  hours 
royally ;  we  are  all  brothers,  princes ;  we  have  known 
all  happiness,  until  —  Ah,  Mademoiselle  !  Le  Pere 
Cabet,  there  upon  the  little  boat!  There  behold 
Gaspard,  his  oarsman;  and  the  other — who  can 
the  other  be?" 

Rose  unslung  the  glass  from  her  shoulder  and 
peered  eagerly  across.  The  ferry  skiff  was  pitching 
slowly  upstream  towards  its  broken  pier.  In  the 
bow  stood  a  tall  old  man  holding  his  frail,  graceful 


The  City  of  Dreams  n 

body  with  taut,  rigid  grace.  His  features  were  a 
dim  blur  at  this  distance;  but  his  majesty  of  spirit 
stood  as  self -revealed.  Beside  him  leaned  a  little, 
swaying  shape,  muffled  in  furs  and  crimson  till  the 
eye  sank  baffled  in  despair  of  finding  one  betraying 
line.  Yet  each  faltering  movement,  each  curve  and 
turn,  each  shrinking  gesture,  told  its  own  tale. 
Virginal;  exquisite;  alone. 

"  Who  is  she  ?    Who  can  she  be  ? " 

Sydney  came  panting  up  the  farther  slope.  His 
whistle  seemed  a  call  from  some  far,  forgotten 
world. 

"And  she  will  wear  the  furs  and  velvets  of  a 
princess,"  murmured  the  boy,  petting  his  flute, 
"and  she  will  be  served,  even  as  a  queen;  and  she 
will  toil  not.  Yet  here  are  we  all  equal;  brothers 
in  labour  and  in  suffering;  alike  in  our  lives  as  in 
the  air  we  breathe.  But  she — she  is  ward  to  the 
Pere  Cabet,  child  of — who  may  know?  As  her 
beauty  is  royal,  so  may  she  well  be  royal ;  but  of  those 
things,  who  may  dare  to  ponder?" 

"  If  you Rose  Faulkner,  what  on  earth  have 

you  found?" 

Sydney  gaped  at  her  over  the  edge,  aghast.  She 
laughed,  half  startled  at  her  own  voice.  She  had 
been  so  far — so  far ! 

The  little  lad  twinkled  back  at  her,  swiftly  under 
standing.  Then  he  rose  lightly,  balancing  against 
his  tiny  crutch. 

"Come  and  behold  us,  Mademoiselle,"  he  urged, 


12  Diane 

gravely.  "  Envy  us  our  Perfect  Law ;  show  us  why 
it  brings  not  peace.  And  you,  M'sieu " 

He  stopped,  glancing  across  the  river  once  more. 
Rose  followed  his  look.  Her  eyes  widened;  she 
caught  at  Sydney's  arm  with  a  cry  of  delighted 
mischief. 

"  Why,  it's  Channing,  Sydney  !  Channing  !  Up 
here  in  a  rowboat,  in  the  middle  of  the  morning! 
And  yet  he  couldn't  think  of  wasting  the  time  to 
come  with  us;  he  sent  me  out  of  the  cabin  when  I 
began  to  tease.  Won't  I  make  him  pay  for  his 
fibbing !  What  is  that  bundle  in  the  bow  of  the 
Celandine  ?  It  looks  like  heaps  and  heaps  of 
clothing — no,  it's  moving.  And  what — why,  he's 
talking  to  the  Pere  Cabet !" 

"It  is  that  the  river  is  high;  therefore  the 
landing  is  under  water.  So  he  will  take  them 
up-stream  in  his  skiff,  where  they  may  step  on 
higher  ground." 

Petit  Clef  watched,  intent.  "He  has  the  strong 
arm,  this  blond  le  Capitaine,  not  so?  See  how  he 
has  lifted  the  Pere  Cabet  as  a  child,  Made 
moiselle  as  a  doll ! " 

Sydney's  shoulders  jerked  unconsciously.  His 
own  arms  and  fingers  were  as  steel;  sometimes  it 
wore  a  little  to  hear  perpetually  the  praises  of  his 
brother  officer's  superb  frame. 

"He'll  tell  me  this  story  before  he  gets  any 
dinner,"  declared  Rose,  in  mingled  wrath  and 
fun.  "The  very  idea!  And  I'll  know  what  that 


The  City  of  Dreams  13 

twisty  bundle  was  before  I'm  an  hour  older.  Where 
could  he  have  been  going?  He  doesn't  know  any 
body  up  at  the  Commune,  surely." 

"Friend  Barclay's  house  is  right  across  that 
field." 

"As  if  Bob  would  go  to  see  Friend  Barclay! 
Sydney,  I'm  surprised  at  you.  Don't  you  know 
he's  an  Abolitionist?" 

"Bob's  a  Yankee  himself,"  Sydney  grumbled 
uncomfortably  under  her  indignant  eye.  "  They've 
been  thick  as  thieves,  ever  since  Bob  first  came 
here.  Didn't  you  know  it  ?" 

"Friend  Barclay  is  a  thief.  He's  a  conductor 
on  the  Underground.  Father  told  me  so.  But  Bob 
isn't.  And  Bob  hasn't  any  business " 

"Oh,  don't  fret  yourself  over  Bob.  He's  a  gentle 
man  and  your  cousin.  He'd  never  stoop  to  that. 
Do  look  at  that  girl,  Rose.  You  can  tell  she's  a 
beauty,  even  from  'way  over  here.  Look  at  the 
lift  to  her  head.  I  wonder  who  in  the  world  she 
can  be!" 

Rose  looked  at  the  demure,  slow-pacing  figure, 
her  eyes  alight  with  charming,  gentle  interest. 
"She's  just  a  little  girl,  I  know  that.  And  she's 
sort  of  forlorn  and  shy.  A  little,  frightened  peasant 
thing,  I  suppose.  What  did  you  say  her  name  was, 
Petit  Clef?" 

"I  spoke  not  her  name."  Petit  Clef  had  been 
forgotten  too  long.  He  sat  curled  on  his  knees  like 
an  offended  squirrel;  his  brown  eyes  blazed. 


14  Diane 

"Please  forgive  us,  dear."  Sydney  choked  back 
his  laughter  at  her  glance.  "We  did  not  mean 
to  be  so  rude.  We  are  interested  in  all 
that  you  will  tell  us.  And  we  want  very  much 
to  know  of  the  Commune,  and  of  this  lady 
most  of  all." 

"She  is  the  Princess.     We  are  her  subjects." 

"  Oh !  we  can  guess  that  for  ourselves.  Please, 
Petit  Clef!" 

Petit  Clef's  chin  relaxed.  No  human  power 
might  hold  out  against  Rose's  coaxing  will. 

"  She  is  ward  to  our  Pere  Cabet.  They  say  that 
she  is  a  great  lady  in  France,  and  that  she  comes 
here,  into  this  wilderness,  only  for  love  of  him. 
Also,  they  say  that  she  is  waif  of  the  streets,  and 
that  she  lives  upon  his  hand  of  mercy.  Take  that 
which  you  will  choose." 

"But  the  name,  Petit  Clef!" 

"The  Butterfly.  So  say  the  angry  mothers, 
when  they  behold  her  trail  her  robes  of  fur  through 
all  this  mire  and  cold." 

"Ah,  the  name,  the  name !    Say  it !" 

Petit  Clef's  straight  brows  crinkled .  Scorn  flashed 
and  gleamed  from  every  line  of  his  wee,  bitter 
face. 

"We,  ourselves,  fathers  and  mothers  of  the 
Commune,"  he  spoke  out,  softly,  hatefully,  "are 
named  Citoyen  and  Citoyenne.  To  the  end  of  our 
days  is  it  so.  The  titles  of  honour  are  not  for  us. 
For  true  honour  lies  only  in  the  titles  of  brother- 


The  City  of  Dreams  15 

hood.  Yet  here  behold  the  one  among  us  who 
hoards  her  Old  World  glory ;  who  walks  not  with 
us,  but  beyond,  above — Mademoiselle,  enfin.  Made 
moiselle  Diane." 


CHAPTER  11 
THE   ARCHITECT 

IT  had  been  a  bitter  winter  for  the  Commune. 
The  early  frosts  had  blighted  the  autumn  fields; 
the  cruel  November  storms  had  killed  the  cattle  by 
scores.  Pride  the  Citoyens  had,  and  to  spare. 
While  there  was  bread  in  their  ovens  and  fire  on 
their  hearths,  what  need  had  they  to  borrow  of 
their  neighbours,  these  barbarians,  the  Americans? 
But  the  bread  dole  dwindled  to  a  morsel,  and  the 
flame  sank  pitifully  low  before  the  locked  year 
yielded  to  the  key  of  spring. 

But  spring  was  come,  at  last.  Every  breeze 
called  to  happy  loitering;  every  whir  of  wings  and 
whiff  of  new-turned  earth  coaxed  like  a  beckoning 
hand.  Up  in  the  Temple  School,  the  children 
writhed  for  impatience  to  escape  from  the  story  of 
the  Great  Napoleon  to  the  new,  real  story  telling 
itself  in  every  shadowing  cloud  and  herald  twitter 
without.  They  were  f rocked  in  quaint  mimicry  of 
their  fathers;  the  long-tailed  blue  coat,  the  puffy 
trousers,  the  wooden  shoes,  made  them  look  a 
Commune  of  Lilliput.  Valentin  Saugier,  looking 
the  giant  among  his  pupils,  stood  before  the  class 
with  face  wet  and  aflame,  gripping  the  fat,  red 

16 


The  Architect  17 

"Histoire"  in  both  stubbed  red  hands.  In  the 
heat  of  toil,  he  had  thrown  off  his  coat,  and  his 
appearance  caused  him  much  anguish  of  spirit,  now 
that  Mademoiselle  Diane  had  wandered  in  to  make 
her  first  visit  to  the  school.  Valentin  loathed 
teaching;  history  was  to  him  a  scroll  thrice  sealed. 
However,  he  must  take  his  share  of  the  common 
burden;  and,  pricked  on  by  duty,  he  ploughed  his 
way  through  the  tangled  epochs,  precisely  as  he  had 
ploughed  the  matted  prairie  field  the  day  before. 

The  children  echoed  his  gasped  sentences  with 
metallic  iteration.  The  white  sunlight  flared  in 
sheets  across  the  gay,  frescoed  walls,  and  struck 
answering  sparkles  from  the  clustered  heads  about 
the  desk.  Mademoiselle  Diane  shook  out  her 
flounces  and  twisted  her  little  fingers  in  her  lap. 
For  all  her  glory,  she  was  more  painfully  em 
barrassed  before  the  gaping  children  than  was 
Valentin  in  his  shirt -sleeves.  This  was  an  affair 
most  tedious;  but  the  Pere  Cabet  had  said  that  a 
show  of  interest  in  Colony  affairs  on  her  part  might 
further  his  attempts  to  silence  the  rising  complaints 
against  his  rule.  Fresh  from  her  one  home,  the 
Convent,  her  eyes  still  dark  with  cloister  shadows, 
she  struggled  in  vain  to  follow  the  methods  of  this 
mysterious  New  World  class;  but  the  wish  of  the 
Pere  Cabet  sufficed.  Behold  her ! 

As  an  inspector  of  schools,  she  had  perhaps  her 
limitations.  But,  as  a  simple  picture,  she  was  a 
delight,  from  the  bronze  curls  puffed  over  her  little 


1 8  Diane 

ears  to  the  arch  of  her  instep  in  its  leaf -green  shoe. 
The  children  peered  round  at  her  with  wide,  resentful 
eyes.  Babies  that  they  were,  the  envious  gossip 
caught  at  home  found  warrant  in  her  sumptuous 
raiment,  so  unlike  their  coarse  garb.  True,  she 
was  not  of  the  Colony;  but  while  she  lived  among 
them  as  the  Pere  Cabet's  ward,  her  butterfly  guise 
should  be  laid  aside.  That  she  should  pace  in  silk 
and  gold  while  their  own  mothers,  pioneers  of  the 
Commune,  must  yet  know  homespun  as  their  only 
wear ! 

Still,  there  was  much  fascination  in  the  flow  of 
those  shelving  skirts,  the  flash  of  those  tight-clasped 
hands.  Diane  chafed  under  the  unblinking  stare 
which  walled  her  on  every  side.  She  stood  up 
sighing  for  relief  as  the  recitation  ended. 

"And  is  it  that  we  may  have  one  little  word 
from  Mamzelle  Diane,  upon  our  progress?" 
Valentin  mopped  his  brow,  laboriously  deferential. 

Diane  came  forward  shyly,  and  opened  her  lips 
to  speak.  Then  there  happened  a  strange  thing. 

Led  by  one  white-lipped,  defiant  boy,  the  children 
arose,  without  a  word,  and  marched  out  of  the 
room.  Not  a  pupil  remained. 

"  Mes  enfants !  You  do  not  comprehend  !  Re 
turn,  I  pray  you!  A-ah!  The  devils,  the  little 
devils ! "  Tears  of  humiliation  streamed  over  Valen 
tin's  cheeks.  He  caught  at  her  gown  with  imploring 
hands.  "  I  beg  you,  I  beseech  you,  dear  Mamzelle, 
do  not  be  grieved.  They  would  not  hurt  you, 


The  Architect  19 

yourself.  It  is  that  their  wicked  parents  have 
taught  them  to  strike  always  at  the  Pere  Cabet, 
even  through  those  he  loves.  And  it  is  all  for  a 
cause  so  slight,  this  quarrel  for  who  shall  be  Pr£si- 
dent.  If  that  you  can  forgive  them " 

Diane  pulled  herself  away  and  fled  like  a  wild 
thing  down  Phalanstery  Hill.  Her  breath  plucked 
at  her  throat  in  frantic  sobs;  field,  and  wood,  and 
river  blurred  in  rainbow  lines  through  her  tears. 
This  insult,  then,  was  the  one  greeting  which  her 
new  home  might  give !  Her  brooded  life  had 
never  known  so  cruel  a  sting.  But  the  Pere  Cabet 
must  not  know;  the  weight  of  his  people's  distrust, 
pressing  more  heavily  day  by  day,  was  a  sufficient 
burden. 

She  paused  on  the  crest  of  the  farthest  bluff.  A 
pale  mist  silvered  the  river ;  the  wind  blew  suddenly 
chill.  She  peered  over  the  edge,  half  tempted  to 
clamber  down  to  the  river-path  below.  Then  she 
sprang  back,  her  cheeks  ablaze,  and  swept  her 
hand  angrily  across  her  tear-stained  eyes.  That 
she  could  so  forget  her  place,  her  pride  ! 

On  the  steep  mill  pathway  below  shrieked  and 
chattered  an  eager  group.  Diane  looked  down  at 
them,  first  listlessly,  then  with  slow-wakening 
wonder.  There  stood  Twonnet,  head  blanchisseuse, 
her  blue  sleeves  rolled  high  above  her  huge  milky 
arms,  her  red  head  tossing  with  the  vehemence  of 
her  rebuke.  Before  her  cowered  Armand,  the 
cooper,  brown,  shrivelled  leaf,  with  the  face  of  a 


20  Diane 

gnome,  the  hands  of  a  mummy.  And  in  those 
hands  lay  a  bundle  lapped  in  coarsest  rags.  A 
heap  of  pitiful  scraps,  it  looked  to  be,  tied  together 
with  a  strip  of  knitted  shawl.  To  one  side  stood  a 
third  figure,  so  strange  to  Diane's  eyes  that  she 
caught  her  breath  in  marvel. 

She  stood  passive,  motionless;  her  great  hands 
lay  folded  over  her  breast;  her 'handsome  head,  in 
its  spotless  turban,  bent  decently,  as  before  her 
betters.  She  had  no  look  of  grossness  nor  of  ill 
proportion;  yet  she  towered  head  and  shoulders 
above  Twonnet 's  swelling  bulk,  and  her  arms  were 
as  a  cradle.  A  twig  snapped  under  Diane's  foot, 
as  she  bent  down,  peering;  the  woman  looked  up 
swiftly.  Diane's  lips  quivered.  In  that  dark  face, 
first  startled,  then  comprehending,  there  shone  a 
tenderness  deep  as  the  tenderness  that  had  watched 
her  baby  years.  She  felt  herself  soothed,  guarded; 
the  tears  dried  on  her  cheek.  And  yet  the  face 
that  lifted  to  her  was  the  face  of  a  slave. 

"Animal ! "  sputtered  Twonnet.  "  Miserable  !  To 
bring  this  waif,  this  blind  kitten,  to  hide  it  upon 
my  shelves,  among  my  fresh  linen !  To  make 
pretence,  enfin,  that  I  have  stolen  it !  I,  Twonnet, 
thief  of  infants !  Thief  of  a  little  beast,  comme 
cela,  black  as  thy  hat,  black  even  as  thy  soul, 
Armand  !  Take  that ! " 

Armand  ducked,  a  breath  too  late.  Her  dumpling 
palm  rang  upon  his  shrivelled  ear. 

"To  make  of  me  fool,  ridicule,  before  my  friends  ! 


The  Architect  21 

To  make  me  derided,  mocked  as  a  booby  who 
finds  that  which  she  seeks  not !  And  it  is  all  thy 
fault,  image  of  straw  that  thou  art!  Faquin!" 

"I  have  meant  nothing,  nothing!"  chirped 
Armand  shrilly  above  the  torrent  of  her  abuse. 
"  It  is  thy  own  prying,  meddler !  Hadst  thou  not 
turned  the  store-room  key  upon  an  hour  forbid 
den " 

"There,  there,  chillen!"  The  negress  swept  like 
a  great  calm  ship  between  the  two.  "Can't  you 
unnerstan',  Twonnet?  He's  jes'  a  li'l  black  pick 
aninny,  nothin'  but  a  li'l  slave  chile,  that's  all. 
De  hunters  is  been  watchin'  us  all,  day  an'  night, 
ever  sence  dat  las'  crowd  went  through;  so  Fren' 
Barclay,  he  tole  me  to  hide  'im  de  bes'  way  I  kin, 
'fear  de  hunters  would  git  'im  an'  take  'im  back 
down  Souf  agin.  Right  ter  do  it?  Dey  am'  got 
no  right,  dey  ain'  got  no  nuffin',  'ceptin'  dey's 
brass  an*  dey's  hard  hearts.  Oh,  it's  all  'long  o' 
dat  Fugitive  Law,  what  makes  us  niggers  all  slaves 
agin !  Melissy,  his  ma,  she's  free  as  me,  tel  dey 
come  an*  took  her,  an'  sold  her  down  Souf  agin. 
No,  I  ain'  see  how  dey  figger  hit  out,  needer.  But 
dat  ain'  here  nor  dere.  Melissy,  she'll  make  her 
way  dis  far,  but  she  kain'  take  de  baby  no  furder, 
hit's  dat  dangersome,  so  she'll  leave  him  with  us 
tel  there's  another  crowd  sent  off  Norf.  An'  I  fin' 
out  dey's  watchin'  my  cabin,  'cause  I's  free  nigger 
now,  so  I's  coaxed  Armand  here  to  hide  'im  over 
night.  He's  a  good  li'l  pickaninny;  an'  smart!" 


22  Diane 

She  pushed  back  the  wrappings  and  drew  the  child 
from  Armand's  grasp.     "  Look  at  de  white  blood 
in  his  nose  an'   his  chin !     Look  at   dat   straight 
hair !    An'  Fren'  Barclay,  he's  ter  come  an'  take 
him  away  this  very  mornin*.     My  Lord,   honey ! 
How's  you  git  here?" 
"Mademoiselle  Diane  !" 
"  Aie  !    What  will  the  Pere  Cabet  say  ! " 
"  I  wish  to  see  him,  this  child,  this  slave."     Diane 
slipped   through  Twonnet's    detaining   hand.     Her 
voice   fluttered;   her   face   lighted   with   eagerness. 
"The  Pere  Cabet  has  related  to  me  often,  how  we 
ourselves   have  been  slaves   in   our  own  country, 
before  that  he  has  given  us  this  happiness,  this 
freedom " 


"Us!"  Armand's  dry  chuckle  was  drowned  in 
Twonnet's  taunting  shriek.  "  Is  it  that  Mademoiselle 
considers,  then,  that  we  were  as  this — this?'' 
She  snatched  back  the  enveloping  shawl.  "That 
we  were  black,  imbeciles  ?  And  the  Pere  Cabet,  he 
has  made  us,  then.  He  has  taught  us,  hein?  He 
has  given  us  all  things.  So.  And  is  it  that 
Mademoiselle  knows  what  he  has  taken  away?" 

Diane  stood  back,  quivering.  The  furious  tirade 
shrilled  on,  merciless. 

"What  of  me?  I,  who  had  my  little  shop,  my 
customers  of  the  years  past,  my  people,  whom  I 
adored,  my  friends,  my  carved  chairs,  my  garden? 
I,  Twonnet,  whom  all  declared  best  blanchisseuse  of 
the  quartier?  Behold,  the  Pere  Cabet  has  come 


The  Architect  23 

to  me;  he  has  told  me  of  the  glories  of  this  New 
World,  where  man  works  but  when  he  will,  as  for 
pleasure ;  where  food  and  garments  are  free  as  air ; 
where  all  share  equally  of  their  treasure;  where  I, 
Twonnet,  shall  stand  by  the  side  of  Madame  la 
Duchesse.  And  I  have  listened,  idiot  that  I  am. 
And  I  have  followed.  Behold  me,  yoked  now  in 
labour  for  the  months  past  with  Barbe  Thore, 
woman  of  mutton,  with  la  Veuve  Tressain,  who 
can  not  write  her  own  name  !  I,  Twonnet !  Equal 
in  labour?  Of  a  truth,  yes.  We  toil  until  we 
fall,  as  the  beaten  horse  in  his  traces.  Equal  in 
food  and  in  raiment?"  She  twitched  down  her 
faded  blouse  with  a  cruel  laugh.  "When  there  is 
of  food  and  of  raiment  to  divide,  it  is  divided.  A 
sleeve  here,  a  shoe  there.  Black  bread  to  one — 
water  to  his  brother.  Of  treasures — we  have  but 
the  one  treasure  left.  Our  name  of  freedom.  And 
each  one  his  share  of  freedom — when  that  he 
sleeps.  As  for  Madame  la  Duchesse — there  is  no 
Madame  la  Duchesse !  Citoyenne,  Citoyenne,  tou- 
jours  Citoyenne  !  Unless " 

Diane  waited,  white,  silent,  shocked  to  the 
heart. 

"Moi,  aussi,"  grumbled  Armand,  "I  who  have 
built  the  desks,  the  buffets,  for  the  house  of  M.  le 
Ministre  himself !  I,  who  stood  President  of  my 
guild  for  three  years  together!  There,  in  Paris,  I 
am  of  the  profession;  here  am  I  artisan.  Francois 
Armand,  carver  of  ebony  and  of  pearl  to  the  noblesse, 


24  Diane 

makes  of  himself  cooper,  carver  of  barrel-staves, 
unto  the  Commune !" 

Diane  stood  pulseless.  She  was  as  drowned 
beneath  the  torrent  of  their  scorn. 

"And  we  are  not  alone,  we  whose  eyes  are  opened ! " 
Twonnet  turned  back,  fiercely.  "  Look  !  Can  you 
not  see  the  cloud  that  looms  before  you?  Listen! 
Can  you  not  hear  the  storm?" 

"Then,  if  your  hate  is  so  far  stronger  than  your 
love,  why  do  you  not  go?"  Her  voice  rang  far 
and  strange.  "  You,  whose  trust  is  turned  to  anger. 
You,  who  despise  him — mon  Pere  Cabet " 

Strong  arms  caught  her  to  a  deep  mother- 
breast.  She  lay  there,  blinded,  choking  in  her 
tears. 

"You  let  dis  chile  alone!"  The  voice  of  the 
negress  rolled  out,  a  deep,  soft,  thunderous  peal. 
"  Ain'  you  done  tell  me  she's  same  as  Mister  Cabet 's 
own  li'l  girl  to  him  ?  How's  you  like  anybody  talk 
'bout  you'  pa  like  dat?  Ain'  you  shame' !" 

"Persis!" 

The  strong  clasp  relaxed.  Diane  stood  up, 
hushing  herself  to  breathless  quiet.  A  tall,  old 
man  came  striding  down  the  bluff-path  to  them. 
He  swept  the  group  with  a  keen,  gray  glance;  he 
laid  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  the  negress. 

"Persis,  thee's  better  at  keeping  thy  word  than 
I.  It  is  ten  minutes  past  th'e  time  I  promised,  but 
the  delay  had  reason.  Go  back  up  the  road  to  the 
white  oak;  thee'll  find  the  chaise  hitched  there. 


The  Architect  25 

Drive  back  with  the  child  to  my  house,  and  stay 
there  till  I  come.  There's  no  danger,  this  side  of 
the  river." 

"Yes,  Mas'r." 

"And  thee'll  be  of  great  aid  to  us,  friends,  if 
thee's  willing  to  hold  thy  peace."  His  shrewd 
eyes  questioned  Armand,  then  turned  satisfied  to 
Diane.  "And  thee — thee's  Diane,  from  the  house 
of  Citizen  Cabet.  Won't  thee  walk  up  the  hill  with 
me,  daughter?  It  is  a  lonely  road  back  towards 
the  Commune." 

Diane  looked  up.  Sixty  years  of  gentle  deeds 
were  written  in  the  bronzed,  smooth-shaven  face 
bent  to  her.  "I  shall  be  honoured,  M'sieu " 

"M'sieu  1'Ami."  The  gray  eyes  twinkled  de 
lightedly.  He  took  her  arms  and  swung  her  like  a 
child  across  the  muddy  gully,  and  up  the  path. 
"Good-bye  to  thee,  friends.  Now  let  us  see, 
daughter.  Ah,  those  shoes!"  He  set  her  down 
plumply  upon  a  log,  then  went  to  work  scraping 
the  clay  from  her  little  boots  with  his  pocket  - 
'knife.  "When  I  finish,  I'm  going  to  carry  thee  to 
a  dry  path,  my  child,"  he  chatted  on.  He  was 
serenely  blind  to  her  furtive  attempts  to  dry  her 
eyes  and  smooth  her  ruffled  hair.  "Thee'll  find 
these  hills  no  convent  garden.  Thee  can  spoil  all 
thy  finery  in  a  day's  romp."  He  touched  the  rent 
flounces  of  green.  "But  in  May,  when  my  apple- 
orchard  is  abloom,  I  shall  come  and  take  thee  there. 
Thee  can  run  in  it  all  day  without  staining  a  ribbon. 


26  Diane 

Margaret  will  even  let  thee  eat  thy  supper  in  the 
trees,  if  thee  likes." 

School-room  and  mill-path  receded  into  the 
distance.  "I  shall  .much  desire  to  come.  I  thank 
you,  M'sieu  1'Ami — 1'Ami — — " 

"M'sieu  1'Ami  Barclay.'*  His  eyes  danced  be 
neath  the  gray  broadbrim.  His  French  had  the 
burr  of  homespun  learning ;  to  Diane,  it  sounded  the 
sweetest  note  in  months.  He  fumbled  carefully 
through  every  pocket.  "Good  children,  who  learn 
my  name,  and  speak  it  loud  and  clear  for  me,  I 
always  reward,"  he  chuckled.  He  put  a  fat, 
striped  stick  of  peppermint  in  her  hand,  and  gazed 
longingly  at  another.  "Sometimes  I'm  tempted  to 
find  cause  for  rewarding  myself.  Yet  this  cannot 
taste  so  good  to  me  as  to  some  little  man  in  sabots, 
up  at  the  Phalanstery." 

He  bit  his  lip  at  sight  of  the  stinging  red  in  her 
cheek.  "I've  reminded  thee  of  something  painful," 
he  said,  looking  hard  at  the  horizon.  "Thee  must 
forgive  an  old  man  his  blunder.  It  is — the  Com 
mune " 

"I  shame  myself,  M'sieu."  Diane  set  her  teeth. 
"  But  how  can  they  taunt  him  so  !  How  can  they 
be  so  cruel !  He  has  done  for  them  all  things ;  he 
has  clothed  and  fed  and  taught  them.  And  for 
gratitude  they  will  give  a  wound  ! " 

The  man  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"Etienne  Cabet  is  a  wonderful  man,"  he  said,  at 
last.  "His  Plan,  now,  is  magnificent.  'Equality 


The  Architect  27 

in  rank  and  property;  the  sanctity  of  the  family; 
religious  freedom;  and  in  goods  and  labour,  'To 
each,  according  to  his  needs ;  from  each,  according 
to  his  powers/  It's  a  magnificent  creed." 
"True,  M'sieu.  It  should  work  miracles." 
"Yes.  But  perhaps  thee's  noticed,  child,  that 
the  power  of  miracles  hasn't  been  conferred  on  us 
quite  yet.  Then  there  was  this  scheme  of  bringing 
the  Commune  to  America.  That  meant  each 
disciple  must  sell  his  land.  A  man  gives  up  part 
of  his  body  when  he  sells  the  land  he  has  planted 
and  tilled  since  childhood.  Besides,  they  must 
sign  an  agreement,  promising  to  give  up  every 
penny,  and  every  article  save  the  clothes  on  their 
backs,  to  the  common  fund.  Yet  it  is  said  that 
Cabet,  himself,  has  kept  the  lands  which  had 
descended  to  him,  and  holds  them  still,  in  his  own 
name.  Curious ! 

"  The  best  of  us  cling  to  those  things  which  have 
the  dearness  of  our  long  possession.  They  tell 
it  of  Mere  Drouet,  grandmother  of  Jacques  and 
Lucien,  that  she  was  one  of  the  strongest  workers 
for  the  Commune  till  the  day  that  she  -went  to 
sign.  'A  few  things  must  I  keep,  Pere  Cabet/  she 
said.  'My  wedding  ring,  the  cloak  of  fur  which 
was  my  mother's  last  gift  to  me,  and  the  cradle  in 
which  my  babies  used  to  sleep.  These  things 
must  remain  my  own.*  'The  wedding  ring  you 
shall  have,'  Cabet  answered.  'But  the  fur  is  a 
foolish  luxury,  and  the  cradle  you  no  longer  need/ 


28  Diane 

'Then  will  I  give  up  the  cloak/  she  said,  though  it 
must  have  cut  her  heart  to  part  with  it.  '  But  the 
cradle  I  must  keep.  It  was  the  nest  of  the  two 
living  and  of  the  four  that  I  have  lost.  I  cannot 
let  it  go  ! '  Cabet — perhaps  he  did  not  understand — 
perhaps  he  did  not  wish  to.  'Citoyenne  Drouet, 
keep  then  your  cradle,  and  remain  here  and  forego 
your  liberty,'  so  has  he  spoken.  'In  that  spirit, 
you  may  not  enter  the  Commune.'  She  threw 
down  the  quill.  They  say  that  Cabet,  the  in 
vincible,  flinched  before  the  fire  in  her  old  eyes. 
'If  that  is  your  plan,  to  give  liberty  by  cutting 
apart  flesh  and  blood,  my  curse  upon  you  and 
your  Commune ! '  And  she  caught  up  the  little 
straw  cradle  to  her  old  breast  as  if  it  was  a  child, 
and  went  her  way." 

"But  she  came  with  the  Colony  in  the  end, 
Friend  Barclay." 

"And  why?  Because  she  must  choose  between 
the  dead  and  the  living  children.  But  has  thee 
ever  watched  her  as  she  sits  in  the  nursery,  minding 
the  little  ones,  while  the  mothers  are  at  work? 
She  cares  tenderly  for  all  the  babies  alike;  but 
when  it  is  time  for  them  to  sleep,  one  of  them 
must  lie  in  her  arms;  for  there  is  one  cradle  which 
she  will  not  use.  Curious !  Cabet  has  many  more 
weighty  things  to  occupy  his  mind,  but,  week  after 
week,  he  goes  in  person  to  inspect  the  nursery,  and 
he  sees  to  it  that  there  is  never  an  extra  crib ;  for  he 
is  determined  that  one  little,  warped  straw  basket, 


The  Architect  99 

with  its  faded  ribbon,  must  and  shall  be  used. 
With  osier  across  on  the  Island,  and  cloth  to 
spare  in  the  warehouse,  one  could  make  a  new 
crib  in  a  day's  time;  then  this  old  one  could  be 
laid  aside.  But  as  long  as  Mother  Drouet  sits  in 
the  nursery,  just  so  long  there  must  be  no  new 
cribs.  Curious!" 

He  turned  his  eyes  away  as  he  spoke.  His  heart 
ached  for  her,  in  the  shame  and  grief  which  his 
words  must  bring;  but  sooner  or  later,  she  must 
know.  A  bitter  draught  does  not  sweeten  by 
waiting. 

"He  could  not  mean  it,  in  that  way.  He  is  too 
kind,  too  tender,"  she  stammered,  at  last.  Friend 
Barclay  spoke  on,  as  if  he  did  not  hear. 

"But  the  Colony  has  prospered.  They  failed, 
to  be  sure,  in  Texas;  they  failed  in  New  Orleans. 
But  they  have  flourished  here.  How  many  are 
there  in  the  Commune  now?" 

"Over  nine  hundred." 

"So  I  thought.  Among  so  many  there  must 
be  some  few  able  men,  fitted  for  work  in  higher 
places  than  the  mill  and  the  field.  Or  are  they  all 
mere  labourers?" 

"Mere  labourers  1"  flashed  Diane.  "Surely  you 
speak  for  pleasure,  Friend  Barclay.  What  of 
Alfred  Louvier,  who  built  the  Phalanstery,  and 
planned  the  looped  wheels  for  the  mill?  What  of 
Magloire,  who  painted  the  great  'Fraternite,'  and 
designed  the  theatre,  and  carved  the  statue  of 


30  Diane 

P£re  Cabet?  What  of  Citoyen  Lemaire,  who 
speaks  in  the  Council  till  your  heart  fills  your 
throat,  till  your  breath  stops  to  hear?" 

"Then,  if  the  Commune  holds  such  men,  it  is  no 
longer  a  weakling.  It  is  able  to  stand  alone,  to 
govern  itself.  We  are  agreed  that  Cabet  is  a 
wonderful  man,  in  all  that  he  undertakes.  Many 
things  he  has  known  to  do,  but  one  thing  he  does 
not  know:  when  to  stop." 

Diane  stared  back  at  him. 

"Thee's  too  young  to  realise  how  nobly  these 
Communists  have  proved  themselves.  They  have 
faced  grief  and  pain  and  danger.  They've  had  no 
law  but  their  own  compact,  but  they  have  kept 
their  hands  clean  and  their  homes  pure.  They 
have  toiled  like  slaves  at  cruel  labours,  never  for 
themselves,  always  for  each  other.  If  ever  men 
ennobled  themselves  to  the  right  of  self-government, 
they  are  the  men.  Yet  Cabet  denies  the  very 
powers  that  he  had  promised  them ;  and  he  tries,  by 
ways  open  and  hidden,  to  keep  all  control  in  his  own 
hands.  I'll  admit  that  they  show  resentment 
childishly;  it  is  beneath  them  to  refuse  his  salute 
and  to  turn  their  backs  on  his  partisans  at  table. 
But  some  of  the  clay  is  still  within  us,  child,  and 
the  heat  of  passion  brings  it  out." 

Diane  stood  up;  her  eyes  grew  violet  under  the 
haze  of  her  tears. 

"You  mean  your  words  kindly,  Friend  Barclay. 
But  you  do  not  know  him.  He  is  all  goodness 


The  Architect  31 

and  truth;  he  could  not  do  so  ill.  He  has  reared 
me " 

"And  thy  people  were  friends  of  his?"  queried 
the  man.  He  glanced  down  at  the  river.  His 
face  grew  curiously  intent.  A  tiny  sailboat  was 
just  putting  inshore.  The  boatman's  bared  fair 
head  and  the  scarlet  handkerchief  about  his  throat 
made  glittering  points  against  the  translucent  blue 
of  water  and  air. 

"I  know  nothing  of  my  people,"  she  whispered 
back.  "The  Pere  Cabet  has  always  promised  that 
when  I  had  eighteen  years  I  should  know  all ;  but 
the  day  of  his  promise  is  past  these  three  months 
gone,  and  he  will  not  speak.  Only  this  one  word 
will  he  say,  that  they  were  both  good  and  wise,  and 
dear  beyond  the  telling  to  each  other." 

"Thee  knows  much,"  the  man  said  gently. 
"  What  more  could  thee  wish  to  hear,  dear  child  ? " 

The  frets  of  the  Commune  were  as  blown  on  the 
hurrying  wind.  Diane  smiled  back  at  the  deep 
assurance  of  his  word.  Her  glance  followed  his 
own  to  the  skiff,  now  moored  below  them.  The 
boatman  was  climbing  swiftly  up  the  hill;  his 
lithe  body  swayed  to  the  ascent,  as  easily  as  if 
he  paced  a  level  sod. 

"It  is  young  Captain  Channing,  from  the  Govern 
ment  fleet.  An  able  youth,  and  interests  me  much. 
Thee  knows  him,  child?" 

"Yes."  Diane's  eyes  clouded  once  again.  Be 
hold  another  enemy  to  the  Commune  ! 


39  Diane 

In  truth  she  knew  him,  this  blond  giant.  He 
had  visited  the  Colony  only  the  week  before.  She 
clenched  her  hands  as  she  remembered  how  every 
shop  and  tool,  every  principle  and  custom,  had 
seemed  to  shrink  and  wither  under  that  cool, 
judicial  eye.  His  impassive  dissent  crystallised  in 
his  response  to  Pere  Cabet 's  florid  praises  of  the 
System.  "You  can  make  brutes  equal,  M.  Cabet. 
You  cannot  equalise  men." 

He  had  better  remain  at  his  post  down  the  river, 
this  insolent  young  engineer,  than  come  to  question 
matters  of  which  he  could  know  nothing.  Truly, 
he  might  possess  some  wisdom  of  a  baser  sort ;  one 
said  that  he  could  read  the  river  as  a  printed  book. 
Under  his  direction  the  jagged  rock  had  been  torn 
from  the  channel  for  miles,  and  the  flow  straightened 
like  a  skein  of  tangled  silk.  Then  Pere  Cabet  had 
told  her  of  the  Eastern  harbours  he  had  planned, 
and  of  the  famous  canal  that  would  bear  his  name. 
But  what  profited  his  learning,  when  it  might  not 
teach  him  to  grasp  the  marvels  of  the  Commune? 
Ah,  he  was  to  be  pitied,  this  poor  M.  le  Capitaine; 
pitied  as  one  who,  having  eyes,  refuses  to  see. 

"  Mademoiselle  Diane  1 " 

Channing  swung  himself  over  the  edge  of  the 
bluff  and  stood  staring,  moonstruck.  His  thin, 
clear  features  took  on  the  smitten  look  of  one  who, 
absorbed  in  racking  thought,  suddenly  realises  that 
his  face  of  abstraction  has  betrayed  his  secret. 

"  Mademoiselle  Diane !     It  is  a  great  pleasure  to 


The  Architect  33 

behold  you.  I  did  not  know  that  it  was  your  custom 
to  promenade  upon  these  bluffs." 

Diane's  chin  tilted  slowly.  She  looked  past  his 
eager  face  towards  the  tree-fringed  river.  "It  is 
the  custom  for  us  to  walk  here  often,  Monsieur. 
The  bluffs  are,  as  one  might  say,  our  park  of  pleas 
ure."  Her  English  was  undeniably  worse  than  his 
French  had  been;  but  the  young  man  crimsoned 
under  the  implied  rebuke. 

"I  am  delighted  that  you  are  willing  to  speak 
English  with  us.  Friend  Barclay  and  I  will  feel 
ourselves  honoured  to  aid  you  in  your  practice,  if 
we  are  so  permitted," 

Friend  Barclay's  eyes  shone  full  of  ripples. 

"I  find  it  both  possible  and  enjoyable  to  speak 
the  French  with  M.  1'Ami  Barclay,"  murmured  the 
girl.  With  a  placid  gaze  she  considered  the  flushed 
and  stammering  giant.  "I  realise  that  I  have 
intruded  upon  some  important  meeting  of  yourself 
with  Friend  Barclay,  and  I  beg  that  I  may  be  par 
doned.  It  is  wrong  for  women  to  hear  the  secrets 
of  state,  is  it  not  so?"  She  swept  him  a  flowing 
courtesy;  she  should  have  stood  on  a  clipped  and 
velvet  terrace,  a  greyhound  at  her  side,  a  fountain, 
marble-throated,  at  her  feet.  "  I  will  go,  now,  and 
leave  you  to  confer  in  peace.  No,  M'sieu  l'Ami,  it 
is  not  necessary  that  I  should  be  accompanied.  I — 
Monsieur,  your  documents  of  state!" 

Channing  had  sprung  forward,  with  an  exclama 
tion  of  protest.  A  roll  of  paper,  thrust  carelessly 


34  Diane 

into  the  pocket  of  his  short  coat,  fell  into  an  open 
scroll  at  her  feet.  It  showed  a  mass  of  woven  black 
lines,  dotted  here  and  there  by  little  red  crosses.  < 

"It's  not  a  secret — if  you'll  just  look,  Made 
moiselle,"  he  cried,  gathering  up  the  clumsy  sheets. 
"See,  it  is  a  map  of  the  river,  at  this  point,  and  of 
the  low  lands  bordering  upon  it.  There  is  Mont- 
rose;  over  here  the  Marais  Vert,  and  here  the 
steamer  landing.  Below  it  again,  those  dark  marks 
show  the  rapids." 

"Ah!    And  the  little  red  crosses,  M'sieu?" 

Channing  bit  his  lip.  "They — oh!  they  are 
mere  landmarks." 

"You  have  visited  them?" 

"  Yes.  We  sometimes  take  pleasure  trips  there — 
little  exploring  parties,"  he  answered,  with  feeble 
pleasantry.  "May  I  row  you  about  to  them,  some 
time  before  long?" 

Diane  folded  the  map  with  languid  care.  "I 
thank  you,  M'sieu.  But  your  river  is  always  in 
such  great  haste,  and  it  is  so  muddy!  Truly,  it 
would  mean  an  enjoyment,  but  one  which  I  fear  I 
must  forego."  She  gathered  up  her  gown  with 
both  small  hands.  "  I  wish  for  you  a  parley  most 
felicitous,  Messieurs,"  said  she.  Her  grave  bow 
was  for  Channing;  her  dancing  eyes  met  Barclay's 
above  the  bent  head  of  the  younger  man.  She 
paced  away  across  the  wet,  bright  turf,  towards  the 
Phalanstery.  The  men  stared  after  her  till  the 
shimmer  of  her  gown  had  vanished  beyond  the 


The  Architect  35 

crown  of  the  hill.  Then  they  looked  at  each  other, 
the  younger  a  bit  shame-faced. 

"I  came  as  soon  as  I  could,"  he  said  gruffly. 

"Thee  has  the  map  ready?  No,  I'll  not  stop  to 
look  at  it  now.  We  must  get  across  as  soon  as 
possible.0 

When  Diane  paused  at  the  crown  of  the  hill,  the 
Celandine  lifted  a  wing  of  pearl  on  the  river's  blue. 
She  watched  it  glide  through  the  willows,  where 
shore  and  island  mingled  misty  branches.  She 
considered  it  tranquilly.  It  was  a  charming  feature 
of  the  landscape. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  PLACE  OF  RED  CROSSES 

"THAT  is  a  dear,  gentle  child,"  remarked  Friend 
Barclay,  straining  his  eyes  for  sight  of  Diane. 
"Thy  cousin  Rose  should  know  her;  they'd  be 
good  comrades.  There  she  stands:  see?  I  judge 
she's  watching  the  boat.  Can't  thee  make  out 
that  dot  of  green  against  the  white  of  the  Phalan 
stery?" 

"  Haven't  time  to  look."  Channing  was  tinkering 
with  the  sail. 

"It  would  seem  wiser,  had  Cabet  permitted  her 
to  stay  with  the  nuns,  instead  of  bringing  her  here, 
now  that  the  Commune  is  on  the  verge  of  civil 
war.  She's  not  the  flower  to  thrive  in  such  rough 
soil." 

No  response. 

"I  reasoned  with  him  during  the  winter,  when 
he  told  me  that  he  had  sent  for  his  young 
ward.  He  looked  at  me  as  if  I  had  struck  him. 
'Would  you  withhold  water  from  the  dying?'  he 
asked.  The  man  is  made  desperate  by  failure. 
There !  Did  thee  see  her  then,  beside  that  clump 
of  birches?" 

"No."  Channing  did  not  look  up.  His  mouth 

36 


The  Place  of  Her  Crosses  37 

spelled  Resolution  above  his  indomitable  chin. 
Friend  Barclay  bestowed  a  confidential  nod  on  the 
horizon. 

''One  doesn't  need  to  be  of  the  world's  people 
to  perceive  such  things  as  lie  beneath  one's  hand," 
he  remarked  benignly.  Channing  tossed  the  boat 
inshore  with  a  mighty  fling. 

"Go  straight  down  the  beach  till  you  reach  the 
heap  of  white  stones,"  he  said.  "I'll  come  as  soon 
as  I  tie  her  up.  Hotter  will  be  there  by  that  time." 

"The  white  stones?  In  the  language  of  thy 
map,  a  little  red  cross?  The  landmark  of  pleasure 
excursions?" 

"That  same."  Channing's  eyes  danced  despite 
his  stubborn  humour. 

The  elder  man  plunged  away  through  the  willows, 
whistling  softly  as  he  went,  a  curious  intermittent 
trill.  The  note  suggested  a  family  of  industrious 
robins,  striving  to  outchirp  each  other.  Presently 
he  stepped  into  a  narrow  clearing,  locked  in  on 
all  sides  by  twisted  willows,  and  thick-sown  with 
anemone.  As  he  entered,  there  was  a  snapping  of 
branches  on  the  opposite  side ;  first  an  apprehensive 
red  head,  then  a  small,  deprecating  body  wriggled 
into  view.  Friend  Barclay  sat  down  on  a  log  and 
beamed  into  the  scared  face. 

"Thee's  prompt  on  the  hour.  Thee  heard  my 
robin  call,  Jacob?" 

"Prompt?  Hear  it?  I  druther  think  I  did!" 
Hotter  leaned  against  a  willow,  puffing;  every 


38  Diane 

leathery  seam  in  his  brown,  quizzical  face  was 
sluiced  in  sweat.  "Got  here  quick's  I  could,  to 
choke  her  off.  Sounds  more  like  a  ostrich  call,  I'd 
say.  Hope  they  ain't  any  spies  layin'  in  the  brush 
short  of  a  mile.  Seems  to  me  ye 're  in  a  powerful 
hurry  to  run  yer  neck  thoo  the  noose,  Mister  Bar 
clay." 

The  laugh  deepened  in  the  gray  eyes.  "My 
neck  will  stand  a  hard  wrench.  What's  thy 
news?" 

"  She's  hidin'  at  Albright's,  safe  enough,  but  they 
won't  take  the  resk  of  keepin'  her  another  day. 
You  can't  blame  'em.  Look  at  the  comeuppances 
folks  is  gettin'  fer  breakin'  that  Fugitive  Slave 
Law !  Here's  Lawyer  Osgood  fined  a  thousand 
dollars,  jest  fer  drivin'  a  nigger  acrost  ten  mile  of 
prairie  to  Chicago;  an*  his  son,  they've  put  him  in 
jail  fer  six  months,  because  he  hitched  up  the 
horses  fer  his  pa,  near's  I  kin  make  out.  Old 
Cap'n  Boyce,  he's  lost  his  job,  too.  He's  brought 
niggers  up  on  the  Alfarita  three  trips  runnin*  this 
spring,  right  in  the  face  of  the  Commissioners. 
'Course  their  staterooms  was  all  engaged,  so  he  kin 
play  'possum  an'  dodge  arrest.  But  the  Alfarita1  s 
owners  caught  on,  all  of  a  suddent,  an'  they  turned 
the  old  man  off  with  one  day's  notice,  an'  black 
listed  him  in  every  office  in  Orleans.  Sixty-six 
years  old,  an'  got  ter  hunt  a  job  on  a  ferry,  like  as 
not,  after  runnin'  a  steamer  fer  forty  year*.  When 
folks  see  doin's  like  that  goin'  on  every  day,  it's 


The  Place  of  Her  Grosses  39 

nateral  they  want  ter  walk  easy.     Ye  can't  blame 


'em/' 


Friend  Barclay  dusted  his  hat-brim  with  infinite 
solicitude. 

"An*  ye're  headin'  down  the  same  road.  I 
don't  s'pose  ye've  seen  what  the  Palladjeem  said 
about  ye  yesterday?" 

Friend  Barclay  thrust  the  proffered  clipping  into 
his  pocket.  "Time  enough  to  read  it  another  day. 
Here's  Robert.  Show  Jacob  thy  map,  won't  thee, 
please?" 

Channing  unrolled  the  scroll.  "You  left  her  at 
Albright's?  Well,  now,  you  want  to  start  at  dusk, 
in  a  straight  line,  due  east  from  their  poplar  grove 
to  this  point  on  the  river  where  I've  made  the  red 
cross,  see?  There's  a  wood-cutter's  shack  right  on 
the  bank.  I'll  put  food  there  this  afternoon. 
You'll  find  a  dug-out  moored  in  the  first  willow- 
clump,  to  the  south.  Take  it  and  drop  down  to 
the  old  Riverside  Banding.  I'll  meet  you  there,  and 
put  her  on  the  Nettie  Lee  as  a  cabin  passenger; 
she's  white  enough  to  pass  inspection  by  lamplight. 
You're  to  go  aboard,  too,  as  a  deck  passenger:  and 
when  the  boat  reaches  Foote's  Landing — that  will 
be  about  four  in  the  morning — you're  to  go  ashore 
with  her  and  meet  Eldredge.  He'll  be  hanging 
around  the  wharf  somewhere.  The  minute  you've 
put  her  in  his  charge,  your  part  is  done.  I'd 
advise  you  to  go  straight  back  aboard  the  Nettie 
Lee  and  go  on  up  to  New  Boston,  then  come  back  by 


40  Diane 

stage  or  boat,  whichever  is  quickest.  Your  going 
on  north  will  help  to  stave  off  suspicion. " 

Hotter  wriggled.  Every  wrinkle  in  his  face 
converged  to  a  focus  of  protest.  "Wisht  ye'd 
picked  out  Sam  Riggs  fer  this  here  job  I "  he 
grumbled. 

"  Samuel  has  done  much  for  us  this  spring.  Thee 
must  remember  it's  harder  for  him  to  undertake  a 
thing  of  this  kind  than  for  us.  He's  holding  Govern 
ment  offices.  Under  the  oaths  that  he  has  taken, 
he  perjures  himself  every  time  that  he  gives  aid 
and  comfort  to  a  runaway." 

"He's  county  clerk  and  postmaster,  yes;  and 
you're  Justice  of  the  Peace.  I  don't  see  ez  but 
what  you  perjure  yerself  worse 'n  he  does.  Only 
thing  of  it  is,  ye  ain't  scared,  an'  he  is.  Well,  I'll 
do  jes'  as  ye  say;  s'pose  I  kin  hold  my  tongue  an' 
travel  well's  the  next  one.  Lord  knows,  I  want 
to  see  her  through,  poor  soul.  But  s'posin'  they 
ketch  us?" 

"What  was  thee  just  saying  about  the  penalties 
for  breaking  the  Fugitive  Law,  Jacob?" 

Hotter  started,  and  grinned  foolishly.  "Come 
to  think  of  it,  I  guess  we  ain't  goin'  to  get  ketched. 
But  it's  the  last  time  I  monkey  with  fire,  Hister 
Barclay.  I'll  warn  ye  that.  I'd  do  anything  in 
reason  fer  ye,  but  I  won't  break  the  law  fer  no 
man.  So  don't  come  ter  me  again  fer  help  in  this 
business,  fer  I  won't  give  it." 

"  Not  till  the  next  time, ' '  added  Channing.    "  We've 


The  Place  of  Her  Crosses  4* 

heard  that  before,  Hotter.  Your  bark  is  worse 
than  your  bite.  Good-bye,  and  good  luck." 

The  men  did  not  shake  hands.  Perhaps  it  would 
have  seemed  a  confession  of  their  anxiety.  Hotter 
slid  through  the  willows  to  the  west :  the  branches 
closed  behind  the  others  as  they  thrust  their  way 
back  to  the  river.  The  clearing  slept  again  in 
brooding  shadow.  Only  the  bruised  anemones 
lifted  reproachful  faces  to  the  strip  of  light  above. 

"I  wish  one  of  us  might  have  taken  her,  instead 
of  sending  Jacob,"  said  Friend  Barclay.  "I'd 
have  gone  myself " 

"That  would  have  meant  sure  failure.  You're 
under  watch  every  minute,  as  it  is." 

"Jacob  is  but  a  timorous  reed.  Still,  he  has 
little  to  do.  The  burden  lies  with  Eldredge.  He 
will  drive  her  up  to  Chicago  in  his  light  wagon; 
then  he  will  put  her  on  the  schooner  for  Canada. 
Once  safely  in  her  stateroom,  she  will  keep  quiet 
there  until  she  hears  the  signal  knock  at  the  door: 
that  will  mean  friends — and  free  breath  again.  I 
hope  the  Friends  will  be  able  to  send  her  directly 
to  her  husband." 

"  She's  been  in  hiding  for  five  months,  didn't  you 
say?" 

"Five  months.  Think,  man!"  Friend  Barclay's 
voice  pealed  out.  "She  was  a  f reed-woman,  living 
happily  with  her  husband  and  children ;  she  believed 
herself  safe  as  the  mistress  who  had  given  her  this 
freedom.  Eight  days  after  the  Bill  was  passed,  the 


42  Diane 

whole  family  was  seized  and  sold  as  slaves  in  the 
open  market  of  St.  Louis.  Sold  in  defiance  of  their 
papers  of  emancipation,  in  defiance  of  the  word  of 
sworn  witnesses.  Steve,  the  husband,  escaped 
from  his  new  owner  and  made  his  way  to  Canada  in 
a  few  weeks;  Celina  might  have  run  away  before 
now,  but  she  would  not  leave  her  child.  In  the 
end,  they  did  escape  together;  but  she  was  forced 
to  leave  the  little  fellow  with  the  Friends  in  Cin 
cinnati.  They  will  send  him  North,  too,  as  soon  as 
possible:  but  think  of  her  long,  agonised  waiting! 
Five  months  at  first,  now,  perhaps,  five  more  on  the 
rack  of  dread,  before  she  dares  hope  to  see  her  baby 
again!" 

Channing  was  silent.  For  a  time  they  sped  on 
down  the  river  without  further  speech.  It  was  as 
though  each  divined  in  the  mind  of  the  other  some 
painful  thought,  which  must  not  be  given  chance  for 
utterance. 

They  had  covered  half  the  distance  to  the  Govern 
ment  fleet  before  Channing  laid  down  his  oars. 

"I  may  as  well  say  it.  I  must  give  this  up  or 
else  resign  from  the  service.  I  cannot  endure  this 
crawling  business !  To  feel  that  I'm  making  a  busi 
ness  of  breaking  a  law,  no  matter  how  infamous — a 
law  of  my  country,  that  I've  sworn  to  protect " 

"It  is  hard." 

" '  Hard  ? '  Good  Lord  ! ' '  Channing  gripped  the 
gunwale.  His  voice  came  in  gasps.  "It's  tearing 
a  fellow  in  two.  Here's  my  people,  the  Major  and 


The  Place  of  Her  Crosses  43 

Rose  down  there,  all  I've  got  left  in  the  world, 
trusting  me  in  everything.  And  they  believe  in 
slavery  as  a  divine  institution.  To  them  there 
can't  be  any  question ;  it  has  always  been,  so  it  must 
be  right.  They  never  dream  but  that  I'm  one  with 
them.  There's  Palmer,  too;  one  of  the  best  chaps 
that  ever  breathed,  a  slave-owner  like  his  fathers 
before  him,  and  believing  in  it  heart  and  soul.  If 
they  only  knew  how  I  feel,  what  I'm  doing,  they'd 
as  soon  have  a  leper  in  their  midst.  And  here  I 
am,  educated  by  the  Government,  in  its  pay, 
sworn  to  protect  its  institutions.  What  possessed 
me  to  take  such  an  oath,  you  say?  What  could  a 
New  England  boy,  brought  up  as  I  was,  know  of 
slavery?  It  was  'a  necessary  evil,'  a  'regrettable 
yet  an  inevitable  condition,'"  he  flung  the  words 
from  him  as  if  they  had  been  noisome  insects. 
"An  abolitionist  was  a  dangerous  fanatic;  a  come- 
out  er  was  a  traitor,  an  anarchist.  We  must  not 
jar  the  balance  of  the  States,  they  told  us;  we 
smothered  our  wits  with  arguments  for  peace. 
I'm  telling  you  the  truth  when  I  say  that  I  came 
here,  not  indifferent — never  that — but  convinced 
that  endurance  was  better  than  rebellion.  That 
was  five  years  ago — in  '51.  And  look  at  me  now !" 
"I  know.  Thee's  conductor  of  an  underground; 
thee's  known  as  the  most  daring  and  successful  law 
breaker  in  the  State.  Thee's  the  ruffian  who 
seized  Marianne  and  her  two  babies — a  freed- 
woman  she  was,  like  Celina,  but  little  good  might 


44  Diane- 

that  do  her — and  took  them  to  Canada  just  one  day 
before  the  hunter  came  who  would  have  sold  them 
into  slavery  again.  Thee's  the  hound  who  warned 
the  Michaux  settlers  in  Wisconsin,  when  the  slave- 
catchers  were  on  the  eve  of  swooping  down.  Oh, 
thee's  a  graceless  wretch ;  I  wonder  I  can  endure  to 
stay  in  the  same  boat  with  thee !" 

Channing  could  not  respond  to  this  audacious 
fun.  His  passion  had  far  overleaped  the  bounds 
of  his  reserved  nature;  he  was  at  once  shocked  and 
angry  with  himself.  Dearly  as  he  loved  the  older 
man,  he  felt  now  a  shamed  resentment  toward 
him,  the  witness  of  his  impetuous  outburst. 

"Well!  There's  thy  destiny."  Friend  Barclay 
motioned  towards  the  Government  fleet,  swinging 
at  anchor  below  them.  "Put  me  ashore  down 
there,  Robert,  at  Marais  Vert.  Yes,  thee'd  better 
cut  loose  from  me  and  all  my  ways.  It's  a  heart 
breaking  business.  To  feel  that  one  is  opposing  all 
law  and  order ;  to  know  that  one  has  stepped  down 
from  the  level  of  the  citizen  and  stands  with  the 
outlaw.  Yes,  thee '11  suffer;  if  thee  thinks  it  will 
prove  unbearable,  thee'd  better  step  out  before 
thee's  mired  any  deeper."  He  leaped  ashore. 

"How  long  have  you  been  mixed  up  in  this 
wholesale  thievery,  Friend  Barclay?" 

Friend  Barclay's  lips  twitched  into  secular  creases. 

"Forty-one  years,  man  and  boy,"  he  answered. 
"I  was  nineteen  when  I  helped  my  first  slave  to 
escape;  Reuben  Baxter,  his  name  was;  I  shall 


The  Place  of  Her  Crosses  45 

forget  that  name  when  I  forget  mine  own.  For 
two  weeks  we  kept  him,  my  brother  and  I,  hid  in 
the  corn-crib.  For  food,  we  took  him  our  own 
meals,  taking  turns  that  the  family  might  not  be 
alarmed  and  force  upon  us  physic  for  our  low 
appetites.  He  went  at  last  in  safety,  leaving  us 
his  blessing;  and  I  can  tell  thee  we  were  thankful 
to  see  him  depart.  In  all  Berks  County  there  were 
no  two  such  empty  young  Quakers." 

"Forty-one  years!  Well,  when  I've  tried  it  for 
thirty-six  more,  I'll  let  you  know  whether  I  want 
to  resign  from  the  Underground  or  not.  Good 
bye!" 

The  men  grinned  fraternally  across  the  widening 
stretch  of  water.  Channing's  oars  struck  quavering 
echoes  from  the  hollow  western  shore.  The  elder 
man  watched  him  till  he  had  crossed  the  stream  and 
brought  his  boat  into  the  sweep  of  the  farther 
current.  The  mirth  had  deepened  to  something 
nearer  a  blessing  in  his  gaze. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  VOICE  OF  THE  RAPIDS 

THE  Government  steamer,  a  dumpling  stern- 
wheeler,  with  the  Stars  and  Stripes  fluttering  im 
portantly  between  her  dapper  stacks,  swung  at 
anchor  near  the  flock  of  barges  and  the  ungainly 
dredge  which  constituted  the  Government  fleet. 
The  year,  1856,  marked  the  flood  tide  of  the  wonder 
ful  river  traffic  which  flourished  from  the  late  forties 
till  the  early  seventies.  Gigantic  side-wheel  boats, 
floating  terrors  in  construction — for  the  law  which 
demanded  tested  boilers  and  licensed  engineers  was 
as  yet  held  lightly — but  dazzling  in  the  ingenuous 
splendours  of  the  day,  plied  the  shifting,  treacherous 
channel,  from  New  Orleans  to  St.  Louis  and  beyond. 
Fortunes  in  cotton  and  in  sugar,  in  bales  of  silk  and 
sumptuous  furnishings,  were  stacked  upon  their 
level  decks ;  fortunes  plunged  beneath  those  churning 
depths,  or  flamed  to  swift  ruin  at  a  careless  touch  on 
the  wheel.  Blithely  indifferent  to  the  hazards  of 
flimsy  boiler  and  jerry-built  hull,  the  passengers 
teased  the  captain  into  dare-devil  races,  knowing 
meanwhile  that  a  slip  of  the  pilot 's  hand,  the  fall 
of  a  cinder  from  the  throbbing  stacks,  might  sweep 
them  to  swift,  obliterating  death.  The  risks  of 

46 


The  Voice  of  the  Rapids  47 

the  uncharted  channel  were  even  greater  than  the 
dangers  by  fire.  Many  a  steamer  went  aground  on 
one  of  the  shouldering  bars  which  the  river  built 
up  with  wizard  swiftness,  to  be  blown  to  fragments 
in  the  effort  to  fight  her  way  free.  Many  another 
was  ripped  into  splinters  by  one  stroke  from  a 
hidden  rock,  the  tusk  of  the  River  Mammoth  him 
self.  Yet,  in  the  public  eye,  this  huddle  of  boats 
represented  the  supreme  and  culpable  extravagance 
of  an  audacious  Secretary  of  War.  He  was  not 
content  with  the  planning  of  levees  and  the  building 
of  harbours  at  St.  Louis  and  at  Cincinnati,  the 
only  cities  whose  population  justified  such  national 
outlay;  he  dared  tamper  with  the  bed  of  the 
river  itself,  that  tameless  yellow  flood.  With  the 
far  sight  of  the  illusioned,  he  predicted  a  day  when 
the  river  would  become  a  vast  highway,  lined  with 
cities,  stretching  from  that  far  outlandish  place, 
New  Orleans,  to  that  enterprising  trading -post, 
Saint  Paul.  He  would  make  his  mark  upon  his 
time  by  laying  the  first  stone  upon  that  road.  It 
was  not  enough  that  the  channel  should  be  mapped 
and  charted,  that  -  buoys  should  be  swung,  and 
danger  signals  lighted.  Snags  and  sunken  rocks 
must  be  cleared  away,  a  fair  channel  cut  through 
shelf  and  island  and  shallow.  As  the  pioneers  of 
the  early  century  had  hewed  their  way  through 
thicket  and  underbrush,  so  must  the  river  pioneers 
break  through  their  sunken  barriers.  In  twenty 
years*  time,  he  urged,  this  work  would  prove  th© 


48  Diane 

greatest  commercial  benefit  which  the  fifties  had 
accomplished.  Being  possessed  of  authority,  he 
began  the  work,  despite  shaken  heads  and  grim 
assurance  of  failure.  His  engineers,  slim  lads  fresh 
from  West  Point  and  Annapolis,  fiat  of  shoulder, 
long  of  limb,  grave  with  the  absorbed  early  gravity 
of  the  boy  who  carries  the  burden  of  the  man, 
swarmed  up  and  down  the  river,  the  surveying 
crews  tagging  at  their  heels.  His  inspectors,  easy 
army  gentlemen,  whose  prowess  at  Monterey  and 
Chapultepec  still  scarfed  them,  in  glory,  clambered 
and  puffed  behind  their  eager  subordinates.  The 
work  prospered  as  only  the  work  of  the  foolhardy 
may  prosper.  The  Secretary  rejoiced.  Meanwhile, 
the  doubters  grieved. 

Channing  swung  his  skiff  alongside,  and  clam 
bered  on  deck.  A  high,  sweet  call  summoned  him 
from  above.  He  held  back  a  moment,  frowning; 
he  was  in  no  mood  for  the  jolly  banter  which  awaited 
him.  A  second  laughing  appeal,  echoed  by  a 
mandatory  roar,  sent  him  glowering  up  the  stairs. 

The  doors  of  the  tiny  cabin  were  flung  wide,  re 
vealing  a  tight  but  radiant  interior  of  scoured  pine 
and  blinding  white  wall,  decked  with  gay  rugs  and 
crowded  with  pictures.  A  dinner-table,  set  for 
four,  filled  the  narrow  space.  Major  Faulkner, 
Division  Engineer,  set  down  his  cup  and  greeted 
Channing  with  a  shout.  "  Late  again !  By  the 
Lord  Harry,  Bob,  you  ought  to  be  drummed  out 
of  the  service!  I'll  wager  you've  been  sneaking 


The  Voice  of  the  Rapids  49 

off  to  the  Commune  again !  Nice  business  for  a 
nephew  of  mine,  hey  ?  Next  thing,  you'll  be  setting 
up  a  Red  Republic  of  your  own,  and  bribing  my 
men  to  join,  and  stealing  Rose,  to  set  her  up  as 
Goddess  of  Fraternity,  like  that  little  French 
princess  up  there.  Rose,  pour  your  cousin's  coffee, 
and  tell  the  steward  to  fetch  him  some  hot  fish. 
And  tell  him  Mr.  Palmer  and  I  need  some  more 
waffles,  to  finish  off  with." 

"Big  brown  ones,  Amariah."  Lieutenant  Palmer 
flashed  his  dazzling  smile  at  the  negro.  "  You  may 
as  well  refill  that  syrup-pot,  too,  now  that  the 
Captain  has  come.  You  couldn't  hold  you'se'f 
away  from  wafHes,  could  you,  Bob  ?  Not  even  for 
the  little  princess  up  at  the  Commune?" 

"Bob  deserves  no  coffee  from  my  hand,"  vowed 
Rose,  severely.  She  braced  her  chin  on  both 
soft  palms,  and  twinkled  at  Channing  through 
flickering  lashes.  Odd  golden  lights  shimmered  in 
her  brown  eyes;  her  cheek  burned  with  a  deep 
pomegranate  glow  beneath  its  velvet  olive.  "  Selfish 
wretch,  he  promised  me  yesterday  that  he  would 
take  me  up  the  river  in  the  Celandine  the  very 
next  time  that  he  could  leave  his  work.  Think  of 
it,  I've  been  here  a  week,  and  I've  barely  caught  a 
'glimpse  of  the  Phalanstery!  And  here  my  sweet 
cousin  slips  off  alone,  and  stays  the  whole  morning — " 

"Oh,  Miss  Rose,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  you'd 
like  to  go?  You  know  I'd  be  most  happy  to  drop 
anything,  at  any  time!"  Palmer  leaned  forward, 


So  Diane 

flushing  to  his  sunburnt  temples.  His  black  eyes 
snapped:  his  smooth  boyish  lips  twitched  eagerly. 

"Hoity-toity!"  remarked  the  Major.  "If  my 
engineers  have  nothing  to  do  but  take  my 
daughter  junketing,  I  may  as  well  saunter  back 
to  Washington.  What  possesses  you  to  go  to 
the  Commune  so  much,  Bob?  They're  not  your 
sort,  I  hope." 

"One  of  them  is,"  drawled  the  irreverent  Mr. 
Palmer.  His  innocent  gaze  was  fixed  upon  the 
willow-wreathed  shore. 

"Who  is  he  talking  about,  Bob ?    Own  up,  now." 

"I  didn't  go  to  the  Commune,  Rose,"  Channing 
blurted  out,  with  unlucky  truth. 

"Where  in  the  world  were  you,  then?"  The 
Major  put  down  his  newspaper  and  stared. 

"Just  ashore,  making  some — calculations,  things 
I  had  to  see  to  myself.  It's  too  bad,  Rose,  but  just 
give  me  one  more  chance.  There's  a  young  girl 
up  there  that  I  want  you  to  meet.  She's  only  been 
here  a  few  weeks,  and  I  imagine  she's  pretty  lone 
some.  So  are  you ;  perhaps  you'd  be  able  to  console 
each  other." 

Rose's  bright  lips  curled.  "  Mercy,  no,  Bob ! 
I'rm  not  having  such  a  dull  time.  Moreover,  I 
don't  pine  for  rustic  companionship." 

"'Rustic?"  Channing  sputtered  in  his  wild 
haste  to  contradict.  "They  tell  me  she  comes  of 
the  best  blood  in  France !  She's  convent-bred, 
and  her  manners  are  pretty  starchy  yet,  but  she's 


The  Voice  of  the  Rapids  51 

wonderfully  clever.  She  walks  like  a  little  queen. 
Her  English  is  just  as  clear  as  yours " 

"And  her  tongue  is  not  nearly  so  sharp."  Rose 
snatched  a  twig  from  the  jar  of  pussy-willow  behind 
her,  and  struck  him  across  the  cheek.  Channing 
was  suddenly  aware  of  the  vehemence  of  his  cham 
pionship.  He  laughed,  a  bit  foolishly,  then  retorted 
to  her  blow  with  a  terrifying  grimace.  They 
nodded  to  each  other,  in  serene  accord,  like  two 
children.  Their  traditional  duel  was  concluded, 
and  peace  ruled  once  again. 

"Bob,  look  here !"  The  Major  emerged,  red  and 
fuming,  from  behind  his  newspaper.  "Confound 
it,  look  at  that  list,  sir !  I  tell  you,  this  country  is 
going  to  the  dogs !  Here's  not  one,  nor  two,  but 
fifteen  negroes  run  off  from  Louisville  this  week, 
and  every  one  of  them  helped  north  by  those 
infernal  Quaker  thieves  in  Cincinnati.  Of  course, 
it  can't  be  proven  against  them:  they'll  go  into 
Court  with  their  broad-brimmed  hats  on,  and  their 
meek  faces,  and  their  whining  thee-and-thou,  and 
show  they  were  fifty  miles  away,  at  a  First -Day 
meeting  when  the  run  took  place.  They'll  bring 
dozens  of  witnesses  in  their  favour ;  they'll  trump  up 
charges  of  assault  or  damages  against  the  owners, 
to  delay  pursuit.  Meanwhile,  the  niggers  will 
cross  into  Canada  and  be  comfortably  settled  before 
the  case  is  even  heard.  And  then  they'll  hold  their 
confounded  praise  meetings  to  rejoice  in  the  downfall 
of  the  wicked!  It's  an  outrage,  sir,  an  outrage!'1 


52  Diane 

"  I  sold  off  half  my  niggers  three  years  ago,  when 
I  came  of  age,"  said  Palmer.  "  Of  co'se,  my  planta 
tion  is  nowhere  near  Mason  and  Dixon's,  but  I 
reckon  there's  no  security  any  place  these  days. 
What  with  those  Boston  sneaks,  who  come  crawling 
around  and  pass  themselves  off  as  book-agents  by 
day,  and  hold  sedition  meetings  in  the  woods  by 
night,  let  alone  the  Quaker  Judases,  who  wait  on 
the  safe  side  of  the  river  to  help  the  runaways  along 
— and  help  them  into  worse  slavery  than  they've 
left,  too,  I  reckon — a  man  don'  know  whether  his 
soul's  his  own.  In  my  father's  time,  there  wasn't 
a  single  runaway;  he  ruled  with  the  strong  hand. 
The  first  year  I  took  charge  of  the  plantations  there 
were  seven;  and  here  I  had  stopped  the  whipping 
post  except  in  criminal  cases,  and  was  giving  ten 
privileges  where  my  father  gave  one.  But  they 
haven't  any  gratitude  in  them,  no,  nor  natural 
affection,  either,  those  niggers.  They'll  throw  over 
the  master  who  has  cared  for  them  all  their  lives  for  a 
blathering  Yankee  or  a  mealy-mouthed  Quaker " 

"  Oh,  stop  abusing  the  Quakers,  Palmer.  You're 
absurdly  prejudiced,  or  else  you  haven't  met  a 
very  choice  set  among  them." 

"'A  choice  set!'"  The  Major's  voice  rose  to 
a  bellow.  The  buttons  on  his  broad  waistcoat 
vibrated;  his  spectacles  shot  from  his  nose,  pro 
pelled  by  the  reverberation  of  his  shout.  "Do 
you  mean  to  say,  Bob,  that  there  can  be  any  prefer 
ence  among  men  who  make  the  breaking  of  law 


The  Voice  of  the  Rapids  53 

a  duty?  They're  a  choice  set  of  thieves,  every 
man  of  them.  Oh,  there  may  be  exceptions,  yes. 
Friend  Barclay  up  here  is  a  kindly  old  chap,  and  a 
neighbourly.  I  remember  a  Quakeress  who  used 
to  come  to  the  house  when  I  was  a  boy,  back  in 
Prince  William  County;  a  sweeter  woman  never 
breathed.  But  the  most  of  them  are  bigger 
anarchists  than  Pere  Cabet  and  his  crew  up 
here.  They're  canting  hypocrites ;  they're  deliberate 
malefactors ' ' 

"Then  you  would  uphold  the  Fugitive  Slave 
Law,  Major?" 

The  Major  glared.  "I  would  uphold  any  law 
of  my  country,  sir,  because  it  is  her  law,  and  espe 
cially  one  which  deals  with  this  momentous  question. 
Its  penalties  are  none  too  severe,  sir,  none  too 
Severe !  If  we  are  to  stand  calmly  by  and  be 
despoiled  of  our  property,  why  may  we  not  expect 
to  be  despoiled  of  our  rights,  of  our  honour?" 

"Don't  excite  yourself  so  right  after  dinner, 
father.  Bob  isn't  wanting  to  despoil  anybody. 
What's  the  good  of  arguing  all  those  horrid  things? 
Besides,  I  want  him  to  tell  me  more  about  that 
French  girl,  up  at  the  Commune.  What  is  her 
name?  Does  she  puff  her  hair,  or  wear  it  plaited 
in  a  bandeau,  like  the  pictures  of  the  Empress  ?  Is 
she  prettier  than  I  am?" 

"You  ought  to  be  able  to  give  all  required  de 
tails,  Chan,"  put  in  Palmer,  amiably  malicious. 
"This  is  the  fourth  time  you've  been  up  the  river 


54  Diane 

in  a  fortnight.  Open  confession  is  wholesome, 
you  know." 

Channing  sat  helpless  beneath  the  raking  cross-fire. 

"Oh,  go  on  with  your  nonsense!"  growled  the 
Major.  "  If  your  'Manda  had  been  spirited  off  while 
we  were  home  in  Belhaven,  Rose,  I  reckon  you'd 
sing  a  different  tune.  But,  Bob,  I  don't  want  you 
to  be  getting  any  preposterous  notions  of  freedom 
and  equality  from  those  heathen  Frenchmen  up 
there.  They're  relics  of  the  Reign  of  Terror,  that's 
what  they  are.  They're  a  menace  to  the  community. 
A  fine  pack,  with  their  Sunday  plays  and  concerts, 
and  their  demented  notions  of  mutual  ownership 
and  common  labour!" 

"Their  heads  are  too  high  in  the  clouds  to  see 
a  trifle  like  the  slavery  agitation,  Major.  They're 
absorbed  in  their  own  troubles." 

"Come,  now,  Bob,  how  did  she  wear  her  hair? 
And  is  she  fair  or  is  she  dark?" 

"  Sorry  I  can't  come  to  your  aid  and  help  furnish 
data,  Bob,"  said  Palmer,  demurely.  He  seized 
his  cap,  saluted  the  Major,  and  swung  out  of  the 
cabin.  In  a  moment  more,  the  splash  of  his  oars 
came  to  their  ears,  mingled  with  the  whispering 
rush  of  the  river. 

Channing  followed  Rose  to  the  rail.  "She's 
just  a  beautiful  girl,  about  your  age,  I  should 
think."  He  met  her  teasing  glance  with  exas 
perating  guilelessness.  "I  think  she'd  interest  you. 
She  interests  me." 


The  Voice  of  the  Rapids  55 

"Oh!"  Rose's  eyes  followed  Palmer  as  he 
flashed  past  the  stern.  He  stood  up  and  bowed 
to  her,  after  a  courtly  fashion.  There  was  some 
thing  irresistibly  winsome  in  his  supple  young 
body,  strapped  into  stainless  duck  and  glittering 
leather;  his  dark  face  gleamed  with  buoyant  mis 
chief  ;  his  laugh  was  the  laugh  of  spring. 

Channing  noticed  her  look.  He  wondered  easily, 
as  he  had  wondered  twenty  times  before,  whether 
his  cousin  might  not  fancy  Palmer.  Surely  the 
good  fairies  had  elbowed  each  other  at  his  cradle. 
Beauty  and  wit,  high  place  and  riches  were  his  in 
overflowing  measure.  Even  his  faults  captivated. 
His  teasing  pranks,  his  quick  outbreaks  of  passion, 
his  serene  irresponsibility — they  were  all  the  lovable 
faults  of  the  boy. 

Channing  comprehended  these  advantages,  yet 
in  his  grave,  simple  fashion  of  thought  it  never  oc 
curred  to  him  to  envy  the  younger  man.  In  birth, 
he  held  himself  as  high.  His  people  were  staid 
New  England  folk,  punctilious  and  unassuming; 
the  blood  of  his  Roundhead  stock  coursed  unen- 
feebled  through  his  veins.  Nor  did  he  think  to 
compare  his  means  with  those  of  Palmer.  True, 
his  family  had  bequeathed  him  no  property,  save 
the  square  white  house,  shrouded  in  evergreen 
from  sagging  roof  to  crumbling  door-stone,  the 
village  pride  in  far  Colonial  days.  His  pay,  although 
meagre,  satisfied  his  needs;  and  should  he  ever  feel 
the  need  of  a  larger  income,  one  waded  through 


56  Diane 

good  opportunities  in  this  new  country.  The  very 
ease  with  which  wealth  might  be  won  had  delayed 
him  thus  far  in  attempting  to  gain  it. 

Yet  his  eyes  clouded  as  they  rested  upon  Palmer. 
A  vague  discontent  stirred  and  stung  within  him. 
He  grudged  Palmer  not  one  whit  of  his  golden 
fortune,  but  he  longed  for  the  one  treasure  which 
the  boy  held  most  lightly :  a  mind  at  ease. 

He  stood  secure  in  his  own  arrogant  right.  In 
his  eyes,  a  slave  was  a  piece  of  furniture ;  the  power 
of  the  master  was  always  justice :  unquestioned, 
supreme.  He  walked  his  way  unheeding  the  tremor 
of  swift  change  which  shook  the  very  earth 
beneath  his  feet.  No  strange  doubts  beckoned 
him  from  the  pathway  of  his  father's  creed. 
No  mighty  convictions  dragged  him  from  his 
place  among  the  high,  calm  audience  to  range 
himself  beside  the  outlaw,  the  thief,  the 
betrayer.  His  judgment  never  swerved  from 
its  smooth,  selfish  course;  his  conscience  was 
at  peace. 

"I'll  go  up  with  you  some  time  before  long," 
said  Rose,  indifferently.  The  wind  loosed  a  soft, 
thick  ring  from  the  high,  amber- wreathed  coronal 
above  her  little  ears  and  tossed  it  against  her  cheek. 
She  thrust  it  back  with  an  impatient  gesture. 
"Probably  Mr.  Palmer  would  like  to  go,  too.  It's 
so  dull  for  him  here." 

"No  duller  than  for  the  rest  of  us.  I  wonder 
why  Palmer  wanted  to  leave  his  plantations  and 


The  Voice  of  the  Rapids  57 

come  here,  anyway !  There's  no  adventure  to  be 
found  on  this  sleepy  river." 

"He  likes  the  engineering  work,  Bob;  he  hates 
cotton-raising.  Surely  he  might  as  well  work  here 
as  struggle  with  those  lazy  darkies  down  on  the 
Congaree." 

Her  tone  was  impassive;  but  her  cheek  glowed 
scarlet  again  beneath  her  cousin's  glance.  He 
looked  away,  frowning.  Why  should  she  blush  at 
the  sound  of  Palmer's  name,  unless — and  Palmer 
was  a  good  enough  fellow,  for  that  matter;  but 
where  might  the  man  be  found  who  was  good' 
enough  for  Rose?  Rose,  his  cousin,  his  playmate, 
his  comrade? 

"  Bob,  tell  me  honestly.  Did  you  go  up  the  river 
with  Friend  Barclay  this  morning,  or  are  you  just 
joking?  Don't  you  know  he's  an  abolitionist?'* 

"  My  dear  girl,  he's  not  dangerous  if  he  is.  Any 
one  would  think  he  was  the  plague.  Abolitionism 
isn't  catching." 

He  checked  himself,  oddly  disquieted.  Was  he 
speaking  truth  ? 

Rose's  curly  head  tipped  loftily.  "Of  course, 
Bob.  You  know  I  never  meant  to  hint  that  you 
would  stoop  to  anything  of  the  sort.  But  it  doesn't 
look  well  for  you  to  go  about  so  much  with  him. 
You  don't  want  to  be  classed  with  a  man  who 
steals  negroes." 

"Rose,  what  a  little  fire-eater  you  are!  If  you 
just  knew  Friend  Barclay,  you  couldn't  be  hired 


5$  Diane 

to  speak  of  him  that  way.  He's  one  of  the  finest 
men  I  ever  dreamed  of." 

"I  do  know  him,  a  little.  He's  very  kind,  and 
very  hospitable,  but  he  isn't  our  sort,  Bob." 

"He's  my  sort,  Miss  Potomac.  You  must  re 
member  I'm  half  Yankee  by  birth,  and  all  Yankee 
by  bringing  up,  except  the  vacations  I  used  to  spend 
at  your  house." 

"But  you're  always  forgetting  that  you're  half 
Faulkner,  too.  Shame!"  Rose  stiffened  from  the 
tips  of  her  morocco  slippers  to  the  topmost  curl  of 
her  black  head.  Channing's  mouth  settled  into 
lines  of  steel.  Yet  his  eyes  danced  at  her  ruffling 
temper. 

"You  always  did  cuff  me,  Rose,  when  I  wouldn't 
give  in  to  your  way.  You  used  to  box  my  ears  and 
pour  sand  in  my  hair  when  I  made  mud-pies  and 
didn't  put  enough  crimps  around  the  edge  to  suit; 
you  wouldn't  stand  up  with  me  at  the  Burford's 
ball  because  I  could  not  balance  to  please  you  in 
the  quadrilles;  you  won't  even  let  me  think  for 
myself " 

"I  want  you  to  think  as  a  Faulkner  should!" 

"Then  I'll  have  to  do  it  for  myself,  shan't  I? 
There  never  was  a  Faulkner  yet  who  borrowed 
his  opinions."  Channing's  mood  relaxed;  Rose's 
high-flown  moods  always  delighted  him.  "You 
must  give  a  man  some  rope.  You  must  make 
allowance  for  the  benighted  way  I  grew  up.  Back 
in  Boston,  we  don't  believe " 


The  Voice  of  the  Rapids  59 

"  Bob,  you  are  so  tiresome !  Do  stop  your  silly 
arguing.  You  and  father  have  done  nothing  but 
wrangle  over  that  Bill  ever  since  I  came,  and  he 
gets  so  angry  at  dinner,  I  know  it  will  give  him 
dyspepsia.  I  do  wish Oh,  Bob  !  Look,  quick  !" 

Channing  wheeled  about  at  her  terrified  cry. 
To  the  south  of  the  fleet,  the  river  spread  in  waveless 
silver,  its  mirror  unmarred  till  the  eye  caught  the 
bright  rippling  flaw  of  the  rapids,  half  a  mile  below. 
Palmer's  skiff  hovered  near  the  scintillant  break 
which  marked  the  danger  line.  He  stood  up  and 
waved  his  cap  to  them,  then  knelt  in  the  bow, 
shading  his  eyes  to  examine  the  fuse  pipe,  a  leaden 
tube  projecting  above  the  surface,  within  reach  of 
his  hand.  Twenty  feet  beyond  him  lay  Turk's 
Head,  now  in  low  water  distinctly  visible,  the 
wickedest  boulder  in  the  rapids. 

"What's  up,  Rose?  There's  no  danger.  That 
skiff " 

"Oh,  but  the  fuse,  Bob!  The  fuse!  Mulcahy 
charged  it  not  ten  minutes  ago !  I  saw  him  rowing 
away  when  we  came  on  deck.  He'll  think  you're 
just  in  fun  !"  For  Channing  was  signalling  frantic 
ally.  "No,  no,  you  mustn't  go,  not  even  to  save 
him!  Oh,  Bob,  don't!" 

Channing  crashed  into  the  Celandine  with  a 
flying  leap.  The  boat  shot  away  down  the  current, 
leaving  an  arrowy  furrow  clean  as  a  sword-cut, 
Rose's  shriek  died  in  her  throat,  strangled  by  sheer 
terror.  She  gripped  the  rail  and  stood  staring  after 


60  Diane 

the  two  figures,  black  on  the  blind,  white  glare  of 
the  river.  In  that  fusing  glow  of  water  and  air, 
they  seemed  to  hover  suspended  between  the  two, 
black  motes  in  the  ethereal  light.  She  did  not 
notice  the  uproar  on  the  quarter-boat,  where  the 
men  had  suddenly  discovered  Palmer's  danger,  and 
were  hurrying  to  his  aid;  she  did  not  hear  her 
father's  clamorous  questions.  Every  other  sense 
was  merged  in  tense  and  straining  sight. 

Palmer  glanced  up.  In  a  flash  he  understood  the 
reason  for  Channing's  swift  approach.  He  backed 
his  boat  deftly  through  the  network  of  oily  eddies 
which  skimmed  about  Turk's  Head,  and  started  up 
stream.  His  skiff  seemed  to  leap  clear  of  the 
water,  salmon-like,  at  every  stroke.  Rose  held 
her  breath.  Another  minute,  and  he  would  pass 
the  danger  line.  Channing  was  not  fifty  yards 
away,  rowing  like  a  machine. 

The  river  parted  like  a  sheet  of  rending  silk. 
With  the  roar  of  a  tornado,  a  mass  of  mud  and 
rock  shot  high  into  the  air.  The  crest  of  the  re 
turning  wave  caught  Palmer's  boat  and  tipped  it  on 
end,  like  a  pea-pod,  then  hurled  it  under  a  surge  of 
heaving  water.  The  river  boiled  from  shore  to 
shore,  a  sickening  yellow  pit.  Channing's  boat 
was  still  afloat,  although  she  shipped  water  with 
every  stroke. 

11  Father,  Sydney  is  drowned!  And  Bob — Oh, 
make  Bob  come  back  !  make  him  ! " 

The   Major   was   bellowing   unheeded   orders  to 


The  Voice  of  the  Rapids  61 

the  crew  across  on  the  quarter-boat.  Rose  watched 
the  whirlpool  below  Turk's  Head  with  unyielding 
eyes.  For  all  her  horror  and  despair,  she  could 
not  look  away. 

Sydney  Palmer  was  gone.  The  strongest  swim 
mer  could  not  hold  breath  in  that  seething  pot, 
flung  and  battered  against  its  jagged  rim.  Horrible  ! 
horrible !  Yet  her  real  thought  was  not  of  Palmer. 
Her  eyes  clung  to  her  cousin;  her  lips  jerked  in 
anguished  broken  syllables.  "  Oh,  Bob  !  If  you're 
only  saved!  If  you  only  come  back — to  me!" 

As  if  to  defy  her  whispered  plea,  Channing 
rose  up  in  the  Celandine,  throwing  off  coat  and 
shoes,  and  dropped  overboard.  Mulcahy  and  a 
fireman  were  paddling  down  to  him  at  top  speed: 
as  he  sprang  they  paused  in  midstream  and  looked 
back  helplessly  to  the  Major.  Before  he  could 
shout  a  command,  Channing  reappeared  above 
the  surface,  clutching  a  dark  mass  against  his 
shoulder. 

A  gasping  cheer  went  up  from  the  group  on  the 
quarter-boat.  The  men  rowed  madly  towards  him. 
Rose  gripped  the  rail  with  shaking  hands. 

Palmer,  limp  and  unconscious,  was  dragged  into 
the  skiff.  Channing  would  not  risk  overloading 
the  boat.  He  swam  easily  behind,  and  steadied 
himself  by  one  hand  on  the  gunwale.  The  river 
still  heaved  in  long  undulations,  but  the  snarl  of 
the  awakened  rapids  had  sunk  again  to  the  merest 
whimper  of  sound.  Save  for  the  pitch  of  the 


62  Diane 

steamer  and  the  shatter  of  light  across  the  dimpling 
blue,  no  trace  of  the  explosion  remained. 

Palmer  struggled  to  his  feet,  blinking,  as  the 
men  lifted  him  aboard  the  steamer.  There  was  a 
clean-washed  cut  on  his  cheek,  and  his  forehead 
showed  puffy  bruises.  His  black  hair  clung  in 
dripping  points  to  his  soaked  stock ;  he  saluted  the 
Major,  with  a  feeble  grin.  "  Been  inspecting  the 
fuses,  sir,"  said  he.  "Find  'em  all  in  capital  order 
and  working  first-rate." 

"You  confounded  young  fool!"  snapped  the 
Major,  shaking  both  his  hands  violently.  "If  I 
catch  you  running  such  a  chance  as  that  again,  I'll 
recommend  you  for  dismissal.  Rose!"  But  Rose 
had  flown  to  the  cabin.  "Go  get  some  dry  clothes 
on,  and  don't  let  me  hear  of  such  a  trick  again — 
not  till  you  get  your  captaincy,  sir." 

"Let  me  give  them  some  coffee  first,  father." 
Rose  handed  a  steaming  cup  to  Channing  without 
a  word.  But  she  hovered  over  Palmer  with  as 
siduous  interest  while  he  drank,  exclaiming  over 
his  ruined  uniform,  and  bewailing  his  bruises. 
Channing  sipped  his  coffee  with  a  face  alight  with 
serene  discernment.  Rose's  humour  towards  him 
was  comically  obvious.  To  be  sure,  she  ought  to  be 
grateful  to  him  for  Palmer's  rescue;  but,  once 
rescued,  Palmer  cut  an  absurd  rather  than  a  ro 
mantic  figure.  It  was  too  bad  of  him,  to  have 
made  her  hero  ridiculous.  Probably  the  boy  could 
have  fought  his  way  to  shore  unaided,  if  he  had 


The  Voice  of  the  Rapids  63 

not  rushed  in.  He  wished  now  that  he  had  given 
him  a  longer  chance.  That  would  have  saved  his 
dignity,  not  to  speak  of  Rose's  feelings.  Dear  old 
Rose !  What  a  royal  temper  she  could  show  upon 
occasion !  Yet  Palmer  was  a  lucky  chap,  to  be 
sure. 

His  eyes  danced  as  they  met  her  own.  She 
frowned  back  at  him  sulkily.  Angry  colour  flamed 
into  her  round  cheek.  Channing  nodded  to  him 
self,  calm  in  that  sublime  masculine  conceit,  which 
measures  all  things,  visible  and  invisible,  by  rule 
and  line;  that  heavenly  assurance,  which  sorts  the 
stars,  and  plumbs  the  heart,  and  weighs  the  salt 
of  tears. 


CHAPTER  V 
A  LITTLE  BROTHER  TO  THE  TREES 

WREATHING  the  village  like  a  bacchanalian 
chaplet  rose  the  vineyards,  tier  on  tier.  They 
sloped  to  the  river  in  vast  circles ;  they  netted  the 
square  white  houses  in  a  mesh  of  brown  and  green. 
Rude  trellises,  twined  thick  with  woody  stem  and 
velvet  bud,  edged  the  narrow  streets;  the  ruined 
Temple,  that  sumptuous,  hideous  husk,  was  bound 
and  fettered  in  silken  tendrils.  In  the  vintage 
season,  when  the  branches  stooped  under  purple 
treasure,  the  air  was  not  sweeter  than  now,  when 
the  fresh-turned  earth  breathed  forth  its  incense 
to  the  April  sun.  Every  baby  leaf  spread  its 
crumpled  pink  palm  to  the  breeze;  thick  in  the 
furrows  below  huddled  half-opened  violets  and 
silvery  clover,  yet  un visited  by  any  wandering  bee. 
Scores  of  blue-garbed  men  toiled  up  and  down 
the  narrow  paths,  pruning  and  tying ;  for  the  quarrels 
in  the  Colony  had  delayed  all  field  work  to  an 
unheard-of  time. 

On  a  fence-corner  of  one  great  field  sat  a  child  of 
ten,  dressed  in  perfect  imitation  of  the  men  around 
him,  yet  with  certain  touches  of  refinement;  white 
linen  folded  crisp  at  neck  and  wrists,  and  a  scarf  of 

64 


A  Little  Brother  to  the  Trees  65 

faded  crimson  wound  around  his  little  throat.  He 
sat  clasping  his  elfin  hands  over  his  knees,  his  tiny 
body  bent  forward,  his  wide  shadowed  eyes  gazing 
across  the  field.  As  the  men  passed  him,  they 
called  greeting,  sometimes  gay,  always  tender. 
Now  and  then  one  looked  back  at  him,  and  made 
a  swift,  silent  mark  across  his  breast ;  the  world-old 
sign  of  exorcism,  from  the  groves  of  the  Druids, 
from  the  flame-lit  altars  of  Baal;  the  world-old 
stamp  of  fear. 

Presently  there  stumbled  past  a  bent  old  man, 
chattering  at  his  rusted  shears  like  an  enraged 
squirrel.  The  child  stooped  to  him,  his  face  full 
of  delicate  amusement.  "  Give  you  greeting,  Brother 
Alem." 

"Give  you  greeting,  P'tit  Clef ;  I  did  not  see  you," 
mumbled  the  old  man,  blinking  up.  He  held  out 
the  shears  with  a  beseeching  gesture.  "  Place  your 
spell  upon  them,  I  beg  you.  It  is  the  very  devil 
himself  who  thus  possesses  them." 

Petit  Clef  patted  his  shoulder.  "And  is  it  that 
you  do  not  see  the  bit  of  tin  which  has  forced 
itself  up  against  the  nut?"  he  asked.  "Would  you 
demand  that  they  cut  in  such  a  case?  The  poor 
shears!"  He  took  a  knife  from  his  pocket  and 
pushed  the  bit  of  metal  loose. 

"Merci,  merci!"  The  old  man  worked  the 
blades  delightedly.  "Vraiment,  yours  is  a  good 
spell,  Petit  Clef." 

"It    is    at    your    service."     The    child    saluted, 


66  Diane 

laying  a  rigid  palm  to  his  brow ;  the  old  man  stiffened 
up  with  flashing  eyes ;  his  left  hand  flew  to  his  hip ; 
the  right  touched  a  fleecy  lock,  once  crowned  by 
the  plumes  of  a  field -marshal ;  he  stalked  away  down 
the  field,  his  white  head  reared,  his  withered  cheek 
aflame.  Ah,  they  were  glorious  alike  in  life  and  in 
memory,  those  days ! 

The  child  looked  after  him,  gravely  smiling. 

"  Petit  Clef  ! "  A  sturdy  German  boy  of  seventeen 
plucked  at  his  sleeve.  His  moist,  round  face  was 
set  in  creases  of  inquiry. 

"  Bonjour,  Heinrich.  Yes,  I  carved  it  last  night.1' 
The  child  dived  into  his  pocket  and  pulled  out  a 
little  ring  of  bone,  daintily  shaped.  In  place  of  a 
setting,  two  initials  were  carved  on  the  back:  H. 
and  M. 

"It  is  beautiful."  Heinrich  turned  it  over  as 
though  he  fingered  a  jewel  of  price.  "Minna  will 
like  it,  and  it  shall  bring  us  both  happiness.  It  will 
work  a  good  charm." 

"It  has  no  charm  save  that  which  you  may 
give  it,"  returned  the  child. 

"No  charm!"     Heinrich's  jaw  dropped. 

"Your  own  will  be  good  enough,"  laughed  the 
boy.  "Ask  Minna." 

But  Heinrich,  hopelessly  puzzled,  turned  away, 
shaking  his  cropped  head.  There  was  no  use  in 
trying  to  plumb  the  meanings  of  the  little  Master. 

The  labourers  paced  up  and  down  the  long 
green  aisles  in  endless  file,  humming  like  a  swarm 


A  Little  Brother  to  the  Trees  67 

of  vast,  blue-coated  bees.  Petit  Clef  crept  from 
his  perch,  and  swung  himself  upon  his  tiny  crutches. 
Strong  arms  caught  him  from  their  support  to  a 
great  shoulder;  he  laughed  as  he  settled  himself 
into  Pere  Cabet's  grasp. 

"How  is  it  with  thee,  Oberon?  Watching  thy 
subjects,  spying  upon  their  inmost  thoughts,  as  a 
veritable  prince?  Shame  upon  thee,  traitor  to  the 
Commune!" 

"I  spy  upon  no  man,"  retorted  Petit  Clef,  into 
the  folds  of  the  Master's  neck-cloth.  "I  watch 
that  I  may  learn." 

41  You,  who  already  know  all  things !  Come  to 
the  office  with  me,  and  see  the  books  which  are 
just  sent  to  me.  They  are  not  living,  I  confess," 
for  Petit  Clef's  small  face  was  crinkling  with  dis 
dain.  "They  are  poor,  legless  creatures,  who 
neither  fly  nor  swim,  like  your  true  playmates. 
They  have  not  even  branches.  Yet  they  have 
speech,  when  you  find  patience  to  hear.  Will  you 
not  come?" 

Petit  Clef  laid  his  velvet  cheek  to  the  Master's 
forehead.  It  was  a  caress  of  farewell. 

"Then  back  to  your  forest,  ingrate!  But  when 
its  message  wearies  you,  come  again  to  your  other 
kingdom."  He  tightened  the  child  to  him,  then 
set  him  on  his  feet  and  braced  the  crutches  beneath 
his  arm.  "Good-bye,  heart's  own  !" 

Petit  Clef  tossed  his  cap  in  salute,  then  tapped 
away  across  the  stones.  The  labourers  paused 


68  Diane 

to  look  at  him ;  it  was  as  if  he  passed  them  wrapped 
in  light,  the  halo  of  their  loving  eyes. 

Beyond  the  vineyards  lay  the  corn-fields,  then 
illimitable  forest,  stretching  for  miles  across  deep- 
bosomed  hills.  Petit  Clef  passed  the  scattered 
sentinel  trees  with  a  nod  of  greeting;  but  his  eyes 
danced  when  he  reached  the  first  deep  hollow  and 
peered  down.  He  let  himself  cautiously  over  the 
edge  of  this  leaf -cushioned  amphitheatre;  he  clung 
to  sapling  after  sapling,  releasing  each  branch  with 
a  smile  or  a  whisper  of  thanks.  When  he  reached 
the  heart  of  the  hollow,  where  a  thread  of  a  brook 
trickled  through  leaves  and  moss,  his  cheeks  were 
faintly  pink,  and  his  breath  came  swiftly.  He 
looked  up  and  down  the  tiny  valley.  Ah,  they  were 
all  here,  drawn  up  in  line  to  welcome  him,  his  dear 
army;  the  willows,  his  forest  rangers,  in  livery  of 
gold  and  green ;  the  maples,  their  half -curled  leaves 
of  scarlet  shining  as  hussar  red ;  the  stately  birches, 
clad  in  silver  mail.  He  walked  through  their 
rustling  ranks,  a  serious  young  general,  reviewing 
his  men;  he  marked  each  trace  of  change  since  his 
inspection  of  yesterday.  From  the  rasp  of  a  rabbit's 
tooth  on  the  stem  of  a  stripling  beech  to  the  swelling 
purple  buds  of  the  Judas-tree,  nothing  escaped  his 
loving  scrutiny. 

Presently  the  valley  dipped  in  a  wide,  lovely 
circle,  walled  by  high  ledges.  On  the  one  side,  a 
feathery  spring  leaped  and  fell,  leaped  and  fell 
again  over  moss-grown  shelves  of  rock,  to  meet  the 


A  Little  Brother  to  the  Trees  69 

brook  below.  High  in  the  ledge,  close  to  this  baby 
cascade,  was  a  cleft  in  the  rock,  stretching  far  into 
blackness,  but  hardly  two  feet  in  height.  Petit 
Clef  put  his  crutches  aside  and  clambered  up  the 
ledge.  It  was  a  trying  ascent,  even  for  a  sure 
climber ;  but  he  reached  his  eyry  in  safety. 

He  straightened  his  little  body  on  the  leafy  floor. 
As  he  lay,  he  could  look  upward  and  outward,  but 
not  down.  The  murmur  of  the  brook  below  was 
softened  to  the  merest  whisper  of  sound;  overhead 
shone  the  pure,  cold  blue  of  the  spring  sky,  laced  by 
tossing  branches.  Petit  Clef  folded  his  hands; 
his  eyes  grew  darkly  bright. 

Lying  thus  silent  and  alone,  he  had  learned  to 
focus  every  power  upon  his  memory,  as  one  collects 
rays  under  a  burning-glass.  Under  this  white 
light  of  concentration,  the  pictures  of  his  life  shone 
out  in  living  colours,  keen  and  clear.  He  lay  as  in 
a  trance  of  retrospect,  watching  the  gliding  pano 
rama  of  his  days. 

The  sides  of  the  diligence  shook  with  a  continuous 
jar,  for  the  horses  were  taking  the  last  steep  hill 
from  Orsay  to  Paris  at  a  gallop.  It  was  gray  dusk 
without,  and  darker  within  the  coach.  His  uncle 
dozed  in  the  corner;  his  mother's  white,  sleeping 
face  made  a  milky  oval  against  the  black  cushion. 
He  nestled  his  head  against  her  arm,  to  feel  her 
clasp  tighten  unconsciously  upon  his  little  body. 
Always  she  slept  that  wary,  listening  sleep  that  only 
mothers  know. 


70  Diane 

The  days  linked  long  on  the  ocean :  he  had  counted 
them  till  far  beyond  his  power  to  reckon.  There 
would  be  fifty-six,  he  had  heard  them  say;  eight 
blank  weeks  of  water  and  sky.  Sometimes  he 
crept  along  the  deck,  his  hand  folded  in  his  mother's 
palm;  sometimes  he  rode  on  the  captain's  shoulder, 
the  baby  admiral,  the  darling  lord  of  the  sea; 
sometimes  he  lay  for  days  in  the  breathless  pit  of 
the  cabin,  wide-eyed  and  silent  under  the  rending 
clamour  of  the  storm. 

Then  he  played  in  the  white-walled  cairn  of  the 
Street  of  Saint  Ferdinand,  a  heaven  of  sunlit  flags 
and  turf  beneath  the  cloudless  Louisiana  sky. 
Strange  forms  passed  up  and  down  the  narrow 
pavements;  strange  voices  greeted  him,  in  a  tongue 
unknown,  yet  pictured  forth  by  tender  glance  and 
tone.  He  delighted  in  them  all;  the  tall  negresses, 
moving  beneath  heaped,  glowing  baskets  like  calm, 
burdened  ships;  the  spruce  Creoles,  exquisite  in 
snowy  linens  and  rainbow  scarfs,  and  wearing 
uncanny  shoes,  which  he  eyed  with  deep  distrust: 
made  from  the  skins  of  beasts,  they  were,  soft  and 
soundless,  unlike  the  honest  click  of  his  tiny  sabots ; 
the  radiant  children,  who  leaned  from  fairy  chariots 
to  throw  him  kisses  and  flowers :  alike  they  were  all 
enchanting  in  his  sight.  Truly  it  was  a  white  and 
golden  world,  that  Salle  de  Reunion  in  the  Street 
of  Saint  Ferdinand. 

Blurred  into  the  edge  of  this  recollection,  as  a 
cloud  darkens  the  margin  of  a  sunlit  field,  was  the 


A  Little  Brother  to  the  Trees  71 

northward  journey  up  the  Mississippi.  Its  full 
horror  of  pestilence  and  death  was  mercifully  with 
held  from  him;  he  saw  now  only  the  low,  green 
shores,  the  tumbling  yellow  water,  the  anxious 
faces  of  the  men  and  women  as  they  huddled  at  the 
bow  and  talked  quietly  among  themselves.  He 
was  never  permitted  to  enter  the  cabin;  he  lay  on 
deck  through  the  chill  nights,  cuddled  to  Pere 
Cabet's  shoulder.  Again  and  again  he  called  his 
mother's  name,  only  to  have  it  hushed  with  kisses 
on  his  lips.  Haggard  and  fear-stricken,  the  colonists 
put  aside  their  panic  griefs  to  comfort  his  vague 
woe.  Now  and  then  he  awoke  at  the  sound  of 
sobbing  and  low  voices;  once  or  twice  in  the  gray 
dawn  he  sat  up  to  see  a  ring  of  pale  faces  at  the 
rail,  to  hear  the  dull  splash  of  a  heavy  body  on 
the  water  below. 

One  scene  alone  was  burnt  into  his  memory  as 
with  a  pencil  of  flame.  When  the  steamer  rounded 
the  last  bend  toward  Nauvoo,  he  had  turned  from 
the  lovely  hill-crowned  vista  to  the  colonists  crowded 
behind  him. 

"Where  are  the  others?"  he  cried.  "Why  are 
they  not  here  to  see?  Elise  and  little  Prosper, 
Lucien  and  Marie  and  brother  Emile?  Why  are 
so  many  gone?  And  maman!  Oh,  maman  must 
see!" 

The  colonists  stared  back  at  him  dumbly.  They 
had  braved  their  sorrows  well:  but  now  their  mask 
of  self-command  was  torn  away  by  the  one  most 


72  Diane 

bereaved  among  them.  Cowering,  anguished,  their 
grief  burst  forth  in  agonised  sobs  and  tears. 

"My  children!"  Cabet  faced  them,  trembling. 
"Shall  we  stay  ever  to  mourn  the  dead?  For  the 
sake  of  those  who  are  gone,  for  the  honour  of  those 
who  remain,  let  us  have  peace !" 

He  caught  Petit  Clef  into  his  arms.  "And  for 
thee,  beloved,  thou  shalt  never  know  the  loss  of 
father  or  mother.  We,  each  one  of  our  Commune, 
shall  nurture  thee  as  our  own,  our  heart's  treasure. " 

The  tide  turned  with  the  Master's  word.  Petit 
Clef  was  coaxed  from  his  arms  and  smothered  in 
tears  and  promises.  It  was  no  new  thing,  this 
passionate  endearment ;  he  had  often  wondered  that 
it  should  fall  to  his  lot,  when  other  children,  straight 
and  strong  and  perfect,  knew  no  such  tenderness. 

He  turned  on  his  leaf  pillow  and  stared  at  the 
clouded  green  of  the  tree-tops  beyond.  Since  the 
day  of  the  landing,  all  the  pictures  in  his  memory 
glowed  from  frames  like  this.  Save  for  the  winter 
mornings,  spent  in  the  library  or  with  Pere  Cabet,  he 
had  lived  in  the  woods  and  fields.  His  love  for  his 
own  kind  was  compounded  of  gratitude  and  duty; 
his*  love  for  the  forests  was  the  breath  of  his  being. 
The  trees  were  comrades;  they  murmured  to  him 
in  creaking  whispers  when  the  April  wind  whistled 
softly  through  their  thrilled  branches;  they  arched 
over  him,  protecting  arms,  when  the  round  ice 
hurtled  from  the  clouds,  and  lightning  flamed  from 
the  smitten  shield  of  the  sky.  He  laid  a  comforting 


A  Little  Brother  to  the  Trees  73 

cheek  to  the  rind  of  the  riven  oak,  whose  shattered 
branches  darkened  the  turf  below ;  he  heard  the  shy, 
unspoken  melancholy  of  the  willow;  he  knew  the 
silver  laughter  of  the  birch.  All  the  eternal  marvels 
shone  for  him  fresh  and  clear ;  the  amethyst  shadows, 
folded  deep  on  the  mounded  February  snow;  the 
dappled  silences  of  the  river;  the  dream-sweet 
breath  of  golden  orchards;  the  eldritch  wail  of  the 
wild  geese,  whose  flight  traced  a  wavering  black 
triangle  across  the  orange  of  the  November  sky. 

So  was  Petit  Clef.  Shy  and  fearless,  serious  and 
gay;  renamed  in  whimsical  tenderness  for  the  great 
key  of  the  Phalanstery ;  a  pitiful  jest,  which  found 
warrant  in  the  stooped  elfin  body,  the  brain  so 
shrewd  that  it  could  unlock  any  door  of  mystery. 
Truly  the  Little  Key — loved  for  his  helplessness, 
his  face  of  pearl,  the  lucent  lamp  of  his  pure  spirit; 
loved  the  more  that  his  impotent  beauty  embodied 
to  them  that  hope  for  which  they  had  forsworn 
home  and  friends :  the  life  of  the  Commune,  idolised, 
yet  unavailing;  in  form,  crippled  and  helpless;  in 
spirit,  lustrous  and  divine. 


CHAPTER  VI 

VOILA  LA  COMMUNE! 

DOWN  the  valley  rang  a  sweet,  anxious  call: 

"P'titClef!  P'titClef!  Where  are  you?  An 
swer,  little  one!  Answer!" 

Petit  Clef  roused  himself  from  his  waking  dream 
and  crept  out  of  the  cleft.  Not  a  twig  betrayed 
him;  but  half-way  down,  Diane  caught  the  glint 
of  his  red  scarf.  She  screamed  with  dismay. 

"Oh,  little  man!  Wait,  and  I  come  to  help 
you." 

"I  do  not  need  help."  Petit  Clef  balanced  on  a 
sapling  and  looked  down  at  her  quizzically. 

"But  you  will  fall!  Oh,  what  will  Pere  Cabet 
say!" 

"I  cannot  fall.  The  trees  would  catch  me."  In 
a  flash  of  boyish  mischief,  he  shook  the  branch  to 
which  he  clung.  He  swayed  with  it  as  a  squirrel 
rocks  on  the  topmost  branch.  Then,  relenting  at 
her  terror,  he  scrambled  on  down  the  ledge. 

Diane  rushed  to  meet  him,  with  a  swirl  of  flowing 
silks.  He  drew  back  and  eyed  her  gravely.  In 
this  floating  garb  of  green,  she  might  have  been  an 
eager  dryad,  hastening  to  meet  a  pixie;  but  he  saw 
only  the  baffling  splendour  of  her  robe,  and  stood 

74 


Voila  la  Commune!  75 

away  from  it,  abashed.  In  his  diffidence  Diane  read 
that  hostile  silence  which  had  cut  her  to  the  heart 
only  the  week  before.  Her  breath  came  painfully. 

"  Petit  Clef,  will  you  do  me  one  grace  ?  Will  you 
say  what  it  is  I  have  done  that  all  the  people  hate 
me?" 

Petit  Clef  drew  nearer.  She  was  unhappy,  then, 
this  strange  princess,  with  the  cheeks  like  breaking 
pear-buds,  and  the  wonderful  hair  that  glowed  as 
the  copper  jars  that  Brother  Armand  loved  to 
make.  In  the  month  of  her  stay,  he  had  hardly 
caught  a  glimpse  of  her ;  one  has  little  time  to  waste 
on  paltry  human  creatures  when  the  mould  is  warm 
beneath  the  foot,  and  the  forest  ocean  tosses  spume 
of  green.  But  if  the  human  creature  was  in  trouble 
— that  was  another  thing. 

Diane  watched  his  wary  approach  as  if  he  were 
some  charming  wild  creature.  "The  people  do  not 
hate  you.  It  is  only  that  their  heads  are  so  very 
thick.  I  have  heard  of  the  school-room  scene, 
Mademoiselle  Diane;  it  is  best  not  to  grieve  over 
such  things." 

"  But  why  should  they  treat  me  so  ?  " 

Petit  Clef  knit  his  crescent  brows.  "  You  are  here 
as  the  guest  of  the  Pere  Cabet,  is  it  not  so?  You 
are  his  ward ;  he  has  brought  you  here  to  visit  the 
Commune  as  one  who  shall  be  shown  all  honour. 
The  people  are  bitter  against  the  Pere  Cabet  for 
many  things;  is  it  strange  that  they  try  to  hurt 
him  by  striking  at  those  whom  he  holds  dear  ? " 


76  Diane 

"But  you — you  are  his  favourite,  far  dearer  to 
him  than  I;  they  are  not  angered  against  you." 

"  I  ?  I  belong  to  them,  not  to  him.  As  I  would 
have  said,  their  heads  are  very  thick;  they  do  not 
know  you  yet,  so  they  judge  by  outward  sight. 
Mademoiselle,  in  a  Commune  people  learn  to  live 
without  many  things ;  that  is  a  matter  of  principle. 
Yet  they  do  not  cease  to  hunger  for  those  things, 
and  when  they  see  others  enjoying  them — pouf! 
Out  go  their  principles.  You  came  while  the  ground 
was  still  white,  did  you  not  ?  And  at  first  you  wore 
furs,  all  glorious,  from  head  to  foot,  and  a  dress  of 
velvet.  The  mothers  of  the  Commune  wear  shawls 
made  of  blankets  in  the  bitter  weather,  and  gowns 
always  of  cotton.  Many  of  them  have  gone  in 
furs  and  velvets  in  their  day.  Do  you  think  that 
they  have  forgotten?  Then  this  morning" — he 
touched  the  foaming  laces — "you  come  to  walk  in 
the  woods;  the  mothers  of  the  Commune  stand  at 
the  river's  edge  and  wash,  else  they  work  in  the 
vineyards  with  the  men.  And  your  hands,  Made 
moiselle  !  If  you  could  see  the  hands  of  these  the 
others,  you  would  comprehend  more  than  I  can 
speak." 

"  But  the  Pere  Cabet  will  not  permit  me  to  work ! 
I  have  begged  it  of  him,  over  and  over." 

"There  are  toilers  enough  in  the  hive.  We  have 
need  of  a  queen." 

Diane  stood  up.  His  precocity  frightened  her. 
"What  am  I  to  do,  then?  He  insists  that  I  must 


Voila  la  Commune!  77 

remain,  beg  as  I  may  to  go  back  to  France.  And 
I  cannot  bear  it,  to  stay  here,  a  burden " 

"Remain  and  live  as  you  live  now.  You  are  not 
a  burden;  you  are  of  much  service,  though  you  are 
too  blind  to  see  it."  He  pulled  himself  up  feebly. 

Diane  stooped  to  him,  as  if  borne  on  a  wave 
of  compassion.  He  let  her  help  him  up  the  rough 
slope  of  the  hill;  he  could  grant  no  greater  pledge 
of  friendship. 

They  climbed  the  steep  ascent  to  the  birch  wood, 
chatting  softly,  hand  in  hand.  He  stopped  to  pull 
a  bunch  of  early  bluebells  and  late  anemone;  he 
knotted  the  stems  with  a  ribbon  of  grass,  and  gave 
his  largesse  as  if  he  proffered  strange  exotics, 
plucked  from  a  magic  garden.  He  never  gathered 
flowers,  she  had  heard  them  say;  this  gift  had  all 
the  significance  of  a  royal  order. 

Now  they  spoke  of  gay,  familiar  things,  as  if 
the  graver  subject  had  been  cast  aside  in  the  valley 
below.  They  pointed  gleefully  to  the  round  shadow 
of  the  thrush's  nest,  huddled  in  a  tangle  of  hazel 
thicket;  they  pondered  over  the  grave  book  of  a 
shouldering  ledge;  they  rifled  the  buckeye  of  its 
swelling  treasure,  great,  pointed,  roseate  buds,  set 
stiff  on  woody  stems.  Then,  with  an  occasional 
outcry  from  Diane,  and  a  mirthful  command  from 
the  child,  they  stumbled  down  from  shelf  to  shelf  of 
a  steep  bluff,  till  they  clung  breathless  to  the  last 
birch  fringes,  fifty  feet  above  the  curling  brown 
water.  On  the  bank  just  below  them  lay  a  quaint 


73  Diane 

hamlet,  its  squat,  hive-shaped  cottages  elbowing 
each  other  along  the  water's  edge.  Pygmy  huts 
they  were,  yet  built  up  close  and  strong,  snug 
lodges  of  stones  and  willow  brush,  plastered  thick 
and  tight  with  clay.  Up  and  down  the  beach,  in 
and  out  between  their  cosy  domiciles,  swam  and 
paddled  an  eager  family.  Some  tumbled  and 
frolicked  like  kittens  in  the  warm  sunlight,  their 
velvety  furred  bodies  glistening,  their  scaly  tails 
striking  the  earth  with  joyful  thuds  of  challenge. 
Others  played  in  the  wet  clay  bank,  mounding  the 
stiff  lumps  with  dexterous  nose  and  paws.  Diane 
sank  in  the  grass  and  peered  over  to  watch  them 
with  wondering  interest. 

"  Mademoiselle,  behold  the  Commune !"  whispered 
Petit  Clef.  "  Here  are  those  whose  life  and  toil 
and  station  are  equal  in  all  things,  like  as  water- 
drops.  Regard  Citoyen  Luce  yonder,  he  who 
pats  the  clay  into  rolls  as  his  elder  brother  kneads 
for  us  the  loaves  of  bread.  He  is  a  bit  short  of 
breath,  this  Citoyen  Beaver;  he  puffs  as  does  Luce 
when  he  has  finished  a  great  baking.  Tis  the  way 
of  the  family.  And  see,  there  is  Citoyenne  Mar 
garet  he,  at  her  washing !  Watch  her !  H6,  she 
has  even  lunettes,  as  has  our  own  Citoyenne!" 
Diane  gasped  in  shame-faced  mirth  at  the  circle 
of  darker  fur  which  mimicked  poor  Margarethe's 
spectacles  with  malicious  fidelity.  "Watch  her; 
she  stops  to  rest  each  moment !  Surely  it  is  Mar- 
garethe  herself,  under  spell  of  some  harsh  sorcerer. 


Voila  la  Commune!  79 

And  voila,  the  wood-choppers!"  Three  beautiful 
creatures  swam  up  the  beach,  dragging  long  wisps 
of  brush.  "There  is  Raoul  Delaunay,  he  who  has 
taught  the  Greek  and  the  Latin  in  the  Sorbonne, 
so  wisely  that  the  very  blocks  and  stones  could  learn 
of  him.  But  who  will  study  such  things  in  this 
wilderness?  There  is  nothing  for  him  to  do  but 
to  cut  wood ;  therefore  his  hands  are  bruised  and  his 
back  is  bent  and  his  heart  is  sickened  by  hateful 
and  wasteful  toil.  It  is  a  pity,  is  it  not  so?  But, 
then,  in  a  Commune  all  must  be  alike;  what  would 
you  desire  ?  And  there  is  Jean  Paul  Merilhou,  with 
the  heaviest  load,  in  spite  of  his  crippled  hand. 
'Tis  the  way  of  the  man.  Ten  years  ago  he  was 
one  of  the  little  group  of  men  who  slept  in  the 
huts  of  Barbizon  by  night,  and  roamed  the  en 
chanted  forest  by  day,  and  painted  pictures  that 
give  you  happiness  to  drink,  like  water.  Poor? 
They  fed  upon  black  bread  and  fruit,  their  clothes 
hung  in  tatters  upon  them;  none  in  all  Paris  but 
scoffed  at  their  bits  of  river,  so  lovely  that  you  could 
hear  it  flow,  their  trees  that  talked  to  the  wind. 
And  of  them  all,  none  had  the  hand  so  wise  as  Jean 
Paul  Merilhou.  The  three  tiny  prospects  which  he 
finished  will  one  day  hang  in  the  galleries  of  princes ; 
a  nation  may  not  buy  them.  It  was  not  that  his 
courage  failed  him;  he  does  not  know  enough  to 
fear.  But  he  had  dreamed,  too,  and  when  he 
heard  of  1'Icarie  he  put  away  his  plans  as  you 
would  fold  a  garment.  What  were  the  pictures 


So  Diane 

of  a  perfect  life  beside  the  Life  itself  ?  He  came  to 
us  content;  he  stays  with  us  content,  though  his 
body  is  wrecked  by  the  river  fever,  and  his  frozen 
hand  will  never  hold  a  brush  again.  But  this  is  the 
Commune;  what  will  you?" 

Diane  crouched  against  the  bluff  and  shut  her 
hands  over  her  ears.  The  whisper  shrilled  merci 
lessly  on. 

"And  the  last  wood-chopper?  Who  is  it?  Ah, 
you  need  not  listen,  Mademoiselle ;  you  know ! 
Raimond  Massias,  son  of  the  greatest  surgeon  Paris 
has  ever  known,  and  himself  worthy  to  stand  beside 
that  father.  He,  too,  has  the  keen  eye  that  never 
fails  to  see  and  to  understand  disease;  his  is  the 
wise  hand  that  heals  where  it  touches.  When  you 
are  in  pain  and  he  lifts  you — ah,  it  is  as  if  he  poured 
his  strength  into  you  through  those  big  fingers ! 
They  say  that  it  is  well  for  him  that  the  Pere  Cabet 
has  sent  him  to  the  coarsest  labour ;  he  was  too  proud 
of  his  strength;  he  felt  himself  of  far  too  great 
account  to  the  Commune.  Of  that  I  cannot  say; 
it  is  not  pleasant  to  see  that  gray  head  bound  with 
the  leathern  thong,  those  big  shoulders  loaded  with 
branches.  Perhaps  the  wood  is  lighter  than  the 
woes  he  used  to  carry.  But  meanwhile  Citoyenne 
Lucie  grieves  over  the  baby  whose  suffering  she 
knows  not  how  to  cure;  she  must  wait  till  the 
surgeon's  day  at  the  chopping  is  finished.  And 
Citoyenne  Paya  moans  with  the  ache  in  her  old 
limbs  that  his  medicine  could  quiet,  only  that  he 


Voila  la  Commune!  81 

cannot  come  to  see  what  she  may  need.  Yet  as  long 
as  he  knows  not  that  he  is  needed,  you  think  he 
does  not  worry,  Mademoiselle?  Ah,  I  cannot  say; 
I  judge  only  from  what  I  see.  And  it  must  be  well; 
for  this  is  the  Commune." 

"  Petit  Clef  !     Stop  !     I  will  not  bear  it ! " 

Petit  Clef  looked  down  impassively  past  the 
shuddering  figure.  "Your  cry  has  frightened  them, 
Mademoiselle,"  he  said.  "Look!  They  are  all 
scuttling  away,  each  to  his  hole.  And  separately. 
Now,  in  the  time  of  danger,  there  is  no  thought  of 
'Each  for  All/  And  no  'Unite,'  and  still  less  of 
'Harmonic.'  And  there  remains  of  all  their  labour 
only  a  heap  of  mud  and  sticks,  which  the  next 
high  water  will  wash  away.  Truly,  Mademoiselle — 
this  is  the  Commune  !" 

"Petit  Clef!     Diane!" 

They  scrambled  up,  glancing  half -guiltily  at  each 
other.  This  shelf  could  not  be  seen  from  the  top 
of  the  bluff  whence  came  the  call ;  but  the  voice  was 
unmistakable. 

"It  is  the  Pere  Cabet,  and  he  is  come  barely  in 
time  to  save  your  faith,"  mocked  the  child.  Sud 
denly  his  elfin  face  grew  gentle. 

"You  must  decide  for  yourself,  Mademoiselle," 
he  added  softly.  "Forgive  me  if  I  have  tried  to 
make  you  see  the  other  side." 

Pere  Cabet  met  them  at  the  top  of  the  hill.  His 
heavy  figure  betrayed  the  poise  of  the  born  leader, 
even  in  the  field  clothes  of  blue  cotton  and  the  wooden 


8a  Diane 

shoes.  The  gray  hair  was  damp  upon  the  high, 
seeing  forehead ;  the  hazel  eyes  flashed  as  he  helped 
Diane  up  the  last  slope. 

"Well,  my  little  ones,  you  have  led  us  a  grand 
chase !  Another  time  do  not  go  so  far.  There  are 
too  many  young  snakes  in  the  fields;  now  and 
then,  a  wolf  is  seen  in  the  valley.  And  see  your 
gown!"  He  pointed  to  the  rent  flounces  of  green. 
His  voice  was  caressing;  but  Diane  realised  that 
he  did  not  look  her  way.  Mind  and  eye  were 
fixed  alike  on  the  clump  of  square  white  houses 
beyond  the  hill.  His  face  shone  with  the  peculiar 
light  that  glows  from  the  features  of  those  whose 
sight  is  for  things  beyond  our  ken.  One  sees  it 
in  the  faces  of  young  children,  and  in  the  gaze  of 
those  who  have  numbered  their  days  and  wait  in 
peace ;  sometimes,  alas !  in  the  eyes  of  men  to 
whom  great  powers  have  been  given,  without  the 
wisdom  to  direct  them.  Such  see  far;  but  their 
sight  may  not  distinguish  between  the  wisp  and  the 
beacon. 

The  great  bell  of  the  Phalanstery  was  clanging 
the  noon  hour  as  they  crossed  the  fields.  From 
rope-walk  and  arsenal,  smithy  and  mill,  came  the 
click  of  wooden  shoes,  the  hubbub  of  gay  voices. 
The  frets  of  the  Commune  might  turn  brother 
against  brother,  and  cut  through  families  as  with 
a  two-edged  sword;  but  on  such  a  morning  as  this 
one,  the  Spring  would  have  her  royal  way  with  them. 
The  huge  blue  cart  which  conveyed  the  Citoyennes 


Voila  la  Commune!  83 

to  and  from  the  wash-house  on  the  river  side  was 
lumbering  slowly  up  the  hill.  The  heads  of  the 
oxen  peered  from  nodding  wreaths  of  willow  twigs, 
wound  about  the  yokes;  the  driver  was  half- 
submerged  beneath  the  garlands  which  draped  his 
head  and  shoulders.  The  women  alighted  with 
shrieks  of  greeting  to  the  others  who  waited  for 
them  at  the  refectory  door.  They  had  toiled  since 
sunrise  with  only  the  meagre  French  breakfast  of 
coffee  and  bread  to  sustain  them;  but  not  one 
among  them  had  failed  to  freshen  her  gown  and  to 
pin  a  bit  of  colour — a  ribbon,  a  bunch  of  half- 
opened  snowdrops,  even  a  spray  of  young  leaves, 
in  her  smooth  hair.  The  men  were  no  less  neat ; 
their  brave  Gallic  instinct  kept  them  trim  and 
jaunty  where  a  colder  race  would  have  gone  sodden 
in  slovenry  and  in  gloom. 

Within  the  refectory  the  long  tables  were  set 
with  cheap  dishes,  heaped  with  plain,  abundant 
food.  The  cups  and  plates  were  of  tin,  but  polished 
like  silver;  the  coarse  linen  gleamed  as  if 
washed  in  snow,  while  the  jars  overflowing  with 
wild  flowers  touched  the  room  with  grace  and 
charm.  Yet  once  within  the  room,  their  gay  chatter 
ceased :  the  spirit  of  the  Commune  seemed  to  falter. 
The  Citoyens  glanced  furtively  at  Pere  Cabet: 
one  and  another  cast  sullen  looks  upon  Diane. 
Then,  as  if  moved  by  a  single  impulse,  the  mass 
of  the  people  seated  themselves  at  the  two  tables 
farthest  from  the  Master's  place.  These  tables 


84  Diane 

were  in  such  a  position  that  no  one  who  sat  at  them 
could  face  him. 

A  murmur  arose  from  the  waiting  minority, 
quickly  hushed  by  Pere  Cabet's  warning  gesture. 
Following  his  eye,  they  seated  themselves  as  near 
to  him  as  possible.  They  served  each  other  with 
clamorous  talk  and  laughter,  elaborately  ignoring 
the  grim  majority  across  the  way;  the  contrast 
between  their  airs  of  defiant,  impotent  cheer  and 
the  moody  silence  of  the  majority  told  the  tale  of 
the  five  months*  wrangle  for  office  and  preferment 
as  clearly  as  though  written  on  the  wall. 

Diane  sat  at  Pere  Cabet's  right  hand;  Petit  Clef 
perched  at  his  left.  Both  caught  the  fever  of  the 
moment,  and  strove  to  interest  Pere  Cabet  in  the 
chatter  of  field  and  shop  which  swelled  into  a 
veritable  whirlpool  around  him.  Pere  Cabet's  face 
was  set  and  gray;  he  could  not  hear. 

When  they  rose  from  the  tables,  the  hall  gloomed 
with  shadow.  Roar  after  roar  of  thunder  shook 
the  earth  with  long  reverberations.  Diane  ran  to 
a  window.  The  river  flashed  white  as  a  ribbon  of 
molten  lead:  the  purpling  western  sky  flickered 
with  points  of  fire. 

"You  cannot  go  to  the  shops  nor  to  the  fields 
until  the  storm  has  come  and  gone,  my  children." 
Pere  Cabet's  voice  reechoed  through  the  silent 
room.  "I  have  a  word  to  say,  and  the  time  is 
expedient.  Seat  yourselves  about  the  dais,  and 
hear.  I  shall  not  weary  you  long." 


Voila  la  Commune!  85 

His  partisans  bustled  forward  to  seize  the  benches 
in  front.  The  opposition  hung  back  for  a  moment ; 
but  the  yoke  of  obedience  was  heavy.  In  a  moment, 
the  room  was  silent  and  orderly.  Pere  Cabet  took 
his  place  and  began  to  speak. 

His  first  words  were  gentle  and  convincing.  He 
reminded  the  colonists  of  the  dignity  of  their 
enterprise  and  of  their  loyalty  to  their  vows.  They 
had  fought  their  way,  through  cruel  obstacles,  to  a 
measure  of  material  success ;  it  now  rested  with  them 
to  regain  that  harmony  which  had  prevailed  up  to 
the  last  few  months,  and  thus  prove  before  the 
world  their  power  of  spiritual  self-government,  as 
well  as  their  ability  to  succeed. 

He  sketched  the  life  of  the  Commune;  he  re 
minded  them  of  those  whose  day  of  toil  had  ended 
even  before  they  might  win  the  poor  comfort  of 
prosperity.  They  had  toiled  in  their  narrow  cell 
of  Time  without  hope  of  requital,  yet  truly  theirs 
was  the  one  great  Reward;  they  were  enshrined  as 
martyrs  in  the  memories  of  the  Colony.  They  had 
left  a  precious  example ;  it  was  the  privilege  of  those 
who  remained  to  live  in  accord  with  the  honour  and 
the  purity  of  their  fair  archetype. 

The  colonists  yielded  visibly  before  his  sincere 
words.  Had  he  continued  in  this  sane,  kindly 
mood,  he  might  have  won  them  to  a  measure  of 
agreement.  But  such  a  victory  were  too  easily 
won.  The  theatric  instinct  which  was  as  his  very 
breath,  though  stifled  for  the  moment  by  real 


86  Diane 

feeling,  flamed  up  again  in  noisy  rhetoric.  He 
chanted  the  glories  of  the  Icarian  System,  not 
neglecting  his  own  work  as  its  founder;  he  rebuked, 
in  phrases  guarded  yet  stinging,  the  sins  of  those 
who  decried  methods  on  which  they  could  not 
improve ;  for  how  could  an  Institution  founded  upon 
the  rock  of  flawless  principle  and  governed  by 
himself,  moi,  Cabet,  be  else  than  perfect?  His 
mellow  voice  swelled  to  a  very  trumpet  of  derision, 
as  he  recounted  the  impudent  suggestions,  the 
plots,  to  alter  the  laws  of  the  Commune  from  the 
rules  laid  down  in  his  own  divine  and  crystal  theory. 
He  spoke  no  names;  it  was  not  necessary,  for  the 
schemers  were  already  known.  There  was  one 
bold  fellow,  who  had  proposed  that  the  Colony  make 
of  itself  an  open  market;  that  the  Colonists  should 
hire  themselves  out  as  workmen  in  the  trades  that 
they  had  already  mastered,  instead  of  taking  up 
hard  new  duties  merely  for  the  sake  of  a  closer 
union.  Heaven  be  praised,  there  were  few  such 
fools  in  the  Commune.  Had  not  I,  Cabet,  arranged 
this  plan  of  an  equal  division  of  labour  for  the  very 
purpose  of  putting  men  in  new  lines  of  work,  that 
they  might  be  refreshed  and  stimulated  thereby? 
Was  not  the  union,  the  solidarity,  of  the  Commune 
its  basic  principle,  as  well  as  its  highest  aim  ? 

Then,  there  were  those  infants,  who  could  bind 
themselves  to  the  System  and  enjoy  its  benefits, 
yet  were  unwilling  to  comply  with  the  trifling 
condition  of  common  ownership.  All  the  marrow 


Voila  la  Commune!  87 

of  individual  ownership  remained,  he  declared. 
The  parent  was  permitted  to  choose  the  education 
of  his  child;  the  hearth  of  man  and  wife  was  a 
shrine,  none  the  less  a  shrine  that  it  was  poor  and 
plain.  But  these  grumblers  demanded  that  they 
should  keep  even  the  poor  toys  which  one  would 
think  they  had  long  since  learned  to  despise.  There 
was,  for  instance,  one  woman  who  had  actually 
refused  for  a  time  to  enter  the  Commune,  unless 
she  might  be  allowed  to  keep  two  preposterous 
fripperies,  a  cloak  of  fur  and  a  piece  of  furniture. 
Another  woman  had  wasted  a  precious  month  in 
deciding  whether  she  could  sell  a  strip  of  land  which 
had  belonged  to  her  great-grandfather,  the  Sieur 
de  Sourche.  And  the  men !  In  their  reluctance  to 
part  with  these  husks  of  life,  they  were  even  worse 
than  the  women.  Only  this  day  had  he  overheard 
one  boast  of  the  rapid  growth  of  the  corn  and 
potatoes  in  his  cottage  plot.  If  this  occurred 
again,  it  would  seem  best  to  forbid  the  raising  of  a 
single  plant  in  any  other  soil  than  the  common 
fields.  So  far  from  being  a  source  of  pride,  it 
should  be  a  shame  to  him  that  he  found  himself 
owning  more  than  his  brothers.  Equality,  equality  ! 
There  could  be  no  justice,  no  happiness,  in  any 
other  estate. 

The  colonists  writhed  beneath  his  gibes .  Frequent 
as  these  outbreaks  had  come  to  be,  they  seared 
cruelly.  Yet  they  sat  and  listened,  grimly  enduring. 
His  magnetism,  the  insolent  pomp  of  his  assump- 


88  Diane 

tions,  awed  them  despite  their  resentment.  They 
gave  him  meed  of  respect  in  form;  but  even  his 
partisans  had  slipped  the  leash  of  sympathy. 

Cabet  felt  the  chill;  he  nerved  himself  for  a 
climax  which  should  rally  his  scattering  forces 
once  again. 

"It  is  to  you,  sons  and  daughters  of  the  New 
Life,  that  the  world  looks  for  guidance!"  he  cried. 
"It  is  your  mission  to  lift  the  herald's  torch  for 
those  who  stand  in  the  gloom  of  ignorance  and  fear. 
It  is  your  duty  to  maintain  peace  and  union  among 
yourselves,  that  your  words  unto  these  others  may 
be  heard.  And  in  the  name,  of  Christ,  first  true 
Communist,  noblest  Leader,  I  demand  that  you 
show  to  others  that  mercy  which  has  been  shown 
to  you.  Feed  the  hungry,  clothe  the  naked,  succour 
them  who  are  fleeing  from  these  oppressors  of  all 
time,  tyranny  and  superstition.  Stand  fast,  citi 
zens  of  the  Commune,  upon  our  rooted  rock,  Soli 
darity:  be  steadfast  in  your  loyalty  to  our  belief 
—'Each  for  all;  all  for  each.'  Vive  1'Egalite"! 
Vive  rUnite* !  Vive  la  Fraternite  ! " 

During  his  speech  three  strangers  had  entered 
quietly,  and  had  taken  seats  in  the  rear.  The 
colonists  did  not  notice  them ;  visitors  were  frequent 
at  the  Phalanstery.  It  was  a  period  of  fads  and  of 
reforms;  castaways  from  an  armada  of  wrecked 
enterprises — Fourierites,  Owenites,  even  a  belated 
Brook  Farmer — were  constant  guests.  "Men  with 
beards,"  oddly  clothed,  and  armed  with  note- 


Voila  la  Commune!  89 

books,  were  a  very  present  evil.  True,  it  was 
trying  to  feel  that  these  outsiders  were  listening 
to  Pere  Cabet's  reproaches;  but,  as  a  rule,  these 
barbarians  did  not  understand  French;  so  what 
matter  ? 

The  situation  was  not  pleasant,  however,  to  one 
intruder,  who  happened  to  understand  the  language. 
An  hour  before,  Robert  Channing  had  met  Friend 
Barclay  at  the  steamer  landing,  talking  with  a 
lank,  serious  frontiersman,  whom  he  presented  as 
"Friend  John;  one  of  us  from  the  Far  West." 
Friend  John,  it  appeared,  had  ridden  east  from 
Kansas  on  horseback,  on  a  business  journey  con 
nected  with  hand-made  maps  and  little  red  land 
marks.  He  had  heard  much  of  this  Commune,  and 
desired  to  spend  an  hour  in  visiting  it.  Friend 
Barclay  found  it  impossible  to  go  up  the  hill  at 
that  hour;  would  not  Channing  take  his  place  as 
guide  ? 

Now,  Channing  would  have  faced  any  other 
known  ordeal  rather  than  to  meet  with  Mademoiselle 
Diane  after  her  puzzling  coldness  of  the  week 
before ;  but  Friend  Barclay  had  the  gift  of  persuasion 
mightily  upon  him;  and  in  the  end  the  young  man 
gave  way.  The  storm  came  up  so  swiftly  that  they 
had  barely  reached  the  Phalanstery  when  the  down 
pour  began.  As  they  knocked,  a  tall,  elderly 
coloured  woman  came  panting  down  the  road. 
Channing  nodded  and  touched  his  cap  to  her. 

"You'd   better   stop   if   you   don't   want   to   be 


QO  Diane 

drenched,  Persis,"  he  called.  "We're  just  going 
in;  won't  you  come,  too?" 

The  woman  lifted  a  beaming  face.  She  was 
dressed  with  the  exquisite  neatness  of  the  trained 
house-servant ;  her  smiling  eyes  and  broad,  brooding 
palms  gave  one  a  sense  of  petting  and  of  comfort, 
even  before  her  voice  rolled  out  its  great,  sweet 
organ-note.  "  'Scuse  me,  Marse  Channing,  I  ain' 
seen  you,"  she  puffed.  "I  is  mos'  bio  wed  my  ole 
lungs  out,  tryin'  ter  git  here  'fore  Marse  Cabet  an* 
de  men-folks  goes  back  ter  the  fiel'.  Got  somepin* 
mighty  pertickler  to  ask  him." 

She  stopped  and  glanced  apprehensively  at 
Channing 's  strange  companion,  who  had  turned 
away  to  read  a  tablet  in  the  wall.  Channing 
laughed  at  her  alarm. 

"He  is  one  of  us,  Persis.  I  don't  know  his  last 
name,  but  he  is  conductor  on  one  of  the  western 
branches  of  the  Underground,  so  Friend  Barclay 
said.  Where  have  you  been  all  week?  You 
haven't  happened  around  to  look  over  my  clothes 
lately." 

"Well,  I'm  sorry,  Marse  Channing,  but  I's  been 
nussin'  them  two  Royce  babies  with  scollet  fever; 
they's  gittin'  'long  fust  rate  now,  but  I  ain'  had  no 
time  for  nothin'  else.  I's  goin'  come  an'  sew  you 
up  to-morrer,  certain  sure." 

She  followed  Channing  bashfully  into  the  hall, 
and  seated  herself  well  in  the  rear. 

Every  soul  in  the  room  knew  Manderson's  Persis. 


Voila  fa  Commune!  91 

She  was  the  only  coloured  woman  in  the  town; 
her  skill  in  simple  medicines  and  in  nursing  had 
tided  them  through  many  an  anxious  hour.  Still, 
there  were  astonished  glances  when,  at  the  close  of 
Pere  Cabet's  sounding  platitude,  she  rose  with  a 
shy  dignity,  and  asked  for  permission  to  speak. 

Pere  Cabet  wiped  his  forehead,  cold  and  beaded 
with  the  sweat  of  a  tremendous  effort.  He  stared 
back  at  her  and  repeated  her  question  to  himself, 
as  though  he  did  not  understand.  "To  speak  to 
us?  Of  something  to  our  interest?"  he  reiterated. 
Then,  with  a  portentous  flourish:  "Surely  we  will 
listen  to  you,  our  sister !  Sister,  you  are  in  truth ; 
for  your  kind  deeds,  are  they  not  always  before  us  ? 
Vive  l'Egalit<§ !  Behold  one  who  is  ever  ready  to 
give  of  her  time  and  strength  to  all  who  call  upon 
her,  of  whatever  race :  true  Communist,  in  that  she 
labours  ever,  but  never  for  herself.  Hear,  citizens } 
Listen  and  heed  what  she  may  say !" 

Persis  twisted  her  apron  in  agonised  embarrass 
ment  throughout  his  presentation.  But  when  she 
spoke,  her  voice  was  clear  and  distinct,  though 
very  low. 

"Maybe  you  folkses  can't  unnerstan'  me,"  she 
began.  "  I  kain'  tell  what  you  is  talkin'  'bout,  mos' 
always;  but  I  is  goin'  say  somepin'  ter  you,  well's 
I  know  how.  You-all  know  fer  you'se'fs  how 
I  is  brung  up,  you's  hear  me  tell  hit  so  oflen.  I's 
been  slave  twel  I's  fifty  year'  ole,  an'  I  am'  never 
had  a  lick  or  hard  word,  I  is  allays  had  de  one 


92  Diane 

mistis,  an*  she's  train  me  an'  brung  me  up  mos'  lak 
I  wus  her  own  chile.  I  is  house  servant  f'om  de 
time  I's  ole  'nough  to  bresh  flies;  so  far's  I  kin  tell 
by  my  own  life,  dey  ain'  nuffin'  wrong  'bout  slavery ; 
nuffin'  'tall.  But  when  I  is  mos'  fifty,  my  mistis 
set  me  free,  an'  I  come  up  here,  an'  goes  to  work  for 
myse'f;  an'  den" — her  head  lifted  with  a  leonine 
gesture;  her  voice  took  on  a  wonderful  volume — 
"den  I  fin'  out  what  free  breff  means.  'Fore  I 
come  up  here,  it  wus  like  I  «breeve  water ;  now,  for 
de  fust  time  in  my  life,  I  breeve  air  ! "  Her  massive 
body  seemed  to  swell  and  grow  tall ;  her  eyes  flamed. 
"  Dee  ain'  no  use  in  my  tryin'  tell  you  how  it  feels ; 
sometimes  I  think  it's  mos'  worth  while  for  be 
slave  jes'  a  little  bit,  for  to  know  what  it  means  ter 
git  free.  But  dey  is  lots  of  folks  what  knows  what 
it  means,  well  'nough,  'thout  bein'  set  free  to  see 
de  dirFence.  Dey  ain'  had  no  mas'r  what  talk  to 
you  like  you's  his  fren',  ner  no  mistis  what  treat 
you  s'if  you's  white  as  she  is.  Dee  is  lots  of  folks 
what  goes  col'  an'  hongry  all  they  life;  what  lose 
father  an'  mother  an'  hosban',  sold  away  f'om  um 
like  you  sell  horses ;  what  have  they's  chillen  snatch 
out  of  they's  arms,  for  all  the  prayers  they  kin  say. 
Who  is  goin'  blame  um  ef  they  hates  bein'  slave? 
Who  is  goin'  blame  um  ef  they  tries  ter  git  away  ? 
You-all  tell  me  that  you  come  over  yere  you'se'fs 
ter  git  'way  f'om  bein'  slaves  in  you's  own  country. 
Seems  like  you'd  unnerstan'  bes'  of  anybody  what 
I  mean. 


Voila  fa  Commune!  93 

"Well,  they's  five  of  my  people,  two  women  an' 
three  HI  chil'en,  over  to  my  house  now,  wait  in' 
they  chance  ter  go  on  up  the  river.  It's  goin'  to  be 
two  weeks,  maybe  three,  'fore  they'll  be  a  boat  up 
what  they  dares  take;  an'  if  the  hunters  come, 
they's  sure  ter  search  my  house  fust,  'cause  I's  free 
nigger.  Dee  ain'  no  safe  place  ter  hide  'um  in  de 
woods;  ef  they's  goin'  ter  git  'way  'tall,  they  mus' 
lie  low  in  somebody's  house  tel  de  search  is  gone  by. 
Now  here  you  has  yo'  houses  an'  yo'  shops  an' 
barns,  room  ter  spare;  ain'  you  goin'  remember 
'bout  you's  own  day  of  trial?  You  ain'  goin'  put 
you'se'fs  in  no  danger;  nobody  'spect  you  know 
anything  'tall  'bout  runaway  slaves.  You  don' 
talk  like  de  white  folks,  you  don'  read  no  news 
papers,  you  don'  have  nothin'  ter  do  with  people 
round  yere.  Ef  you  could  jes'  take  dem  three  li'l 
chil'en  an'  they  mothers  tel  the  right  steamer 
comes,  I'll  promise  I'll  pay  you  fer  they  keep 
twicet  over.  I  ain'  got  no  money,  but  I'll  make  it 
up  ter  you  sewin'  an'  nussin'.  It  ain'  so  much  ter 
do.  Think  'bout  dat  woman's  ole  mother,  what's 
waitin'  fer  her  in  Canady.  Think  'bout  dat  girl, 
so  white  she's  mos'  fair  as  you  folks,  an'  her  baby, 
all  white  but  de  black  in  his  eyes  an'  his  hair.  Do 
you  know  what  she's  runnin'  'way  f'om?  Think 
'bout  that  li'l  boy,  straight  an'  strong  as  yo' 
own  chil'en,  but  starved  twel  you  kin  see  the 
bone,  an'  beaten  with  marks  he'll  carry  tel 
Judgment  Day.  An'  you  tell  me  you  is  been 


94  Diane 

slaves  in  you's  own  country.  How's  you  goin' 
answer  me  now?" 

She  locked  her  hands  over  her  breast  and  waited 
their  answer,  silent.  She  had  begun  with  a  plea; 
she  had  ended  with  an  arraignment:  her  features 
were  set  with  the  control  of  years,  but  her  eyes 
peered  into  Cabet's  face  as  if  they  would  drag 
the  answer  from  his  soul.  The  supreme  question 
of  the  down-trodden  race  seemed  to  echo  through 
the  waiting  room. 

Cabet  arose  to  reply  directly.  He  did  not  take 
his  cue  from  the  grave  faces  of  his  audience ;  had  he 
done  so,  it  might  have  made  a  difference  in  his 
response.  His  one  thought  was  to  free  the  as 
sembly  from  this  most  provoking  and  unanswerable 
interruption.  He  lamented,  then,  that  sadly  ex 
cellent  reasons  would  prevent  the  Colony  from 
taking  part  in  this  work  which  their  most  worthy 
Sister  had  pointed  out  to  them.  It  was  their  place 
to  help  those  who  would  escape  from  the  tyranny  of 
law  and  property,  not  those  held  in  servitude. 
This  duty  should  be  laid  upon  the  shoulders  of  those 
to  whom  it  justly  belonged.  The  Americans  them 
selves  had  brought  slavery  into  their  land;  the 
labour  of  suppressing  it  was  their  just  fate.  With 
such  a  problem  aliens  like  themselves  had  no  right 
to  meddle.  According  to  such  arguments  as  he 
had  read,  slaves  were  held  as  property ;  to  aid  them 
to  escape  was  on  a  level  with  the  theft  of  a  man's 
horses  or  cattle.  What  right  had  they,  whose 


Voila  la  Commune!  95 

principles  demanded  that  they  uphold  the  rights  of 
one  another,  to  despoil  their  neighbours?  The 
Commune  had  won  the  admiring  respect  of  those 
who  studied  it  through  its  discretion  in  keeping 
itself  free  from  the  affairs  of  outside  institutions.  It 
could  not  be  asked  of  them  to  forfeit  this  prestige 
for  the  doubtful  service  which  their  aid  might  lend 
to  the  fugitives.  He  hoped  that  she,  their  friend, 
would  not  take  his  words  amiss  when  he  stated  that 
he  could  not  look  upon  her  in  the  same  light  as  the 
average  slave.  She  had  spirit,  understanding; 
there  might  be  a  few  like  to  her;  but  the  mass, 
he  was  assured,  were  ignorant  and  brutal.  It  was 
the  sad  truth,  that,  until  they  should  prove  them 
selves  worthy  of  a  higher  place,  serfdom  were 
their  fitting  rank. 

"  Fraternity,  equality,  are  for  those  who  can  live 
up  to  their  high  demands!"  he  concluded.  "The 
dull,  the  indolent,  the  vicious — to  such  as  those 
freedom  has  nothing  to  give.  Come  to  us  when 
your  race  is  ready  to  live  up  to  this  high  calling; 
then  you  shall  not  ask  in  vain." 

Channing  clenched  his  hands  till  the  nails  sank 
into  the  flesh.  Within  himself  he  suffered  that 
torture  which  he  knew  must  be  racking  Diane. 
She  had  comprehended  both  speeches;  she  could 
not  fail  to  see  the  vanity  of  Cabet's  answer:  her 
heart  must  sicken  beneath  its  arrogance,  its  soulless 
egotism.  He  glanced  towards  her  as  Cabet  took 
his  seat.  She  was  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  spent 


96  Diane 

and  wide-eyed;  a  sick  recollection  of  his  student 
days  brought  before  him  the  sight  of  a  doomed 
bird,  struggling  for  breath,  beneath  that  cruelest 
experiment,  the  slow  deprivation  of  air.  She  had 
breathed  the  word  of  Cabet  as  the  breath  of  her 
nostrils ;  surely  her  pure  spirit  could  not  live  in  this 
miasm  of  cant  and  denial. 

Persis  heard  the  speaker  through  in  submissive 
quiet.  She  accepted  the  rebuff  as  a  thing  fore 
seen.  Like  all  her  race  an  heir  to  baffled  hopes, 
perhaps  it  was  scarcely  a  disappointment.  She 
merely  bent  her  noble  old  head,  and  turned  to  go 
away. 

"Friends!" 

The  frontiersman's  voice  rang  loud  above  the 
clatter  of  benches  and  the  shuffle  of  heavy  feet. 
The  colonists  stopped  and  stared  at  him  blankly. 
Channing  rose,  then  sat  down  ag'ain  at  his  com 
panion's  gesture.  He  had  a  curious  sense  of  standing 
on  the  brink  of  a  crisis.  To  look  at  the  frontiersman 
clinched  that  sense  to  certainty.  He  towered  above 
the  colonists  like  a  giant  tree;  his  thin,  stern  face 
shone  white  against  the  white  wall. 

"  Friends !  I  had  better  call  you  traitors ! 
Traitors  to  the  laws  you  pretend  to  obey,  to  the 
beliefs  that  you  confess !  Traitors  to  your  own 
word  and  honour.  So  if  any  one  of  you  fall  into  a  pit 
digged  by  one  not  of  your  brotherhood,  you  would 
not  save  him ;  you  would  wait  until  he  who  dug  the 
pit  might  come  to  the  rescue.  You,  as  aliens, 


Voila  la  Commune!  97 

would  have  no  right  to  interfere.  A  slave  is  property ; 
to  free  one  is  to  steal  that  property.  As  much 
said  the  oppressors  of  your  fathers,  sixty  years  ago. 
Do  you,  then,  condemn  your  fathers  that  they  freed 
themselves  and  you?  You  have  gained  honour 
from  such  as  have  studied  your  work,  and  you  are 
determined  to  hold  that  honour,  even  by  casting 
away  the  very  virtues  that  won  it.  Justice  and 
mercy  and  wisdom — you  are  the  Esau  of  the  cities, 
selling  your  birthright  for  the  pottage  of  the  world's 
favour.  And  in  this  thing  most  faithless,  that  you 
deny  that  equality  of  man  to  man  which  is  the 
first  principle  of  your  being.  So  the  slaves  are 
ignorant  and  vicious.  Who  has  made  them  so? 
That  question  is  asked  now;  it  will  be  asked  again, 
and  the  nation  will  listen  and  reply.  So  the  slaves 
are  ignorant  and  vicious.  Who  has  let  them  remain 
so?  That  question,  too,  will  be  answered.  What 
will  you  find  to  reply,  Etienne  Cabet?  How  will 
you  clear  yourselves  before  God  and  man,  you  men 
and  women  of  the  Commune  ? 

"  Listen !  You  have  left  your  homes,  you  have 
given  up  many  things  for  your  great  Duty.  But 
you  cannot  put  aside  your  duties  to  this  world. 
You  claim  Christ,  first  and  noblest  Communist,  as 
your  example.  Are  you  not  pledged  by  that  claim 
to  brotherhood  with  all  men?  Is  not  the  way  in 
which  He  walked,  thorn-strewn  and  stony,  the  one 
road  open  for  those  who  follow  Him? 

"'Is  not  this  the  fast  that  I  have  chosen?    To 


9  8  Diane 

loose  the  bonds  of  wickedness,  to  undo  the  bonds 
of  the  yoke,  and  to  let  the  oppressed  go  free  ?  Is  it 
not  to  deal  thy  bread  to  the  hungry,  and  that  thou 
bring  the  poor  that  are  cast  out  to  thy  house? 
When  thou  seest  the  naked,  that  thou  cover  him? 
and  that  thou  hide  not  thyself  from  thine  own 
flesh?' 

"The  time  is  short.  The  shadow  of  the  Hour 
is  already  upon  you.  Live  according  to  your 
word  and  honour;  else  shall  you  be  scattered  to 
the  winds,  and  of  your  house  shall  there  remain  not 
one  stone  upon  another." 

He  motioned  to  Channing.  "Come,"  he  said, 
under  his  breath.  He  seized  Persis'  wrist ;  together 
the  three  walked  from  the  hall,  through  the  be 
wildered  host  of  the  colonists:  past  Pere  Cabet, 
standing  gray  and  speechless  on  his  platform:  past 
Diane,  whose  downcast  eyes  saw  only  Petit  Clef  at 
her  side.  They  crossed  the  courtyard  and  went 
down  the  sodden  road  for  some  distance,  without 
speaking.  Channing  had  an  idea  that  he  was  very 
calm;  afterwards  he  noticed  a  bluish  line  across 
his  palms,  and  realised  that  his  fists  must  have 
remained  clinched  for  quite  a  while. 

"I  tu'ns  off  yere,"  said  Persis,  presently.  She, 
at  least,  was  her  tranquil  self;  she  looked  the  em 
bodiment  of  calm  beside  the  two  overwrought  men. 
"I  is  'bleege  ter  yer,  Mas'r,  but  it  ain*  done  no  good. 
Dey  is  all  hoppin'  mad  at  Mister  Cabet,  but  just 
the  same  dey  lets  him  do  all  they  decidin'  for  'urn. 


Voila  la  Commune!  99 

An'  they  don'  unnerstan'  'bout  slaves,  nohow;  dey 
think  we's  mos'  same  thing  as  sheeps,  an'  they  is 
boun'  ter  get  inter  trouble  if  they  runs  us  off.  I's 
help  um  when  they's  sick,  an'  teach  um  how  ter 
cook  co'n  an'  things  like  dat  what  dey  ain'  have 
at  home,  an'  I  b'leeve  they  think  mos'  of  my  black 
is  rubbed  off,  by  dis  time."  She  laughed,  a  soft, 
infectious  ripple. 

"You've  rubbed  most  of  it  off,"  said  the  frontiers 
man,  absently.  Channing,  watching  him,  was  aware 
that  he  had  never  seen  a  man  who  spoke  as  spoke 
this  one,  his  simplest  words  packed  with  subtle 
meaning.  Even  his  outward  demeanour  caught 
and  held  the  eye.  He  was  quaintly  dressed  in 
snuff-coloured  clothes  of  the  fashion  of  twenty 
years  gone.  A  high  patent-leather  stock  was 
buckled  around  his  lean  throat;  a  fur  cap  was 
drawn  over  the  thick,  silvery  brush  of  hair.  He 
was  worn  and  tired  and  old;  he  walked  with  the 
pitiful  stiffness  which  comes  of  sleep  in  the  saddle 
or  on  frost-whitened  ground;  but  his  blue  eyes 
burned  with  that  fire  of  the  Spirit  which  neither 
years  nor  grief  can  quench.  His  sombre  face,  with 
its  broad  forehead,  long,  straight  nose,  its  thin,  set 
lips,  and  immovable  chin,  was  as  carved  from  the 
granite  of  his  far  mountain  home ;  his  rare  smile  was 
sunlight.  Despite  his  lameness,  he  moved  with  a 
stately  calm;  he  held  his  old  head  royally  aloft. 
There  shone  an  august  purity  from  every  line  of 
that  stern  face ;  the  record  of  a  soul  which  has  lived 


ioo  Diane 

for  one  great  awful  purpose;  the  record  of  a  blind 
strength  which  has  given  itself  to  cut  one  step  on 
the  mountain  wall,  that  those  who  follow  may  set 
foot  safely  therein. 

"Good-mawnin',  then,  an'  thank  you  kindly, 
Mas'r,"  said  Persis,  at  last.  "No,  seh,  I  don* 
reely  need  the  money."  She  pushed  the  stranger's 
hand  away.  "We  kin  git  um  through  'thout  any 
more;  what  I  wanted  was  a  safe  place  ter  hide  um 
tel  nex'  week  or  so;  but  I  sent  word  ter  Fren' 
Barclay  las'  night,  an'  he  ain'  dis'point  me  yet — no, 
not  oncet,  so  I  reckon  he  ain'  goin'  ter  begin  now. 
No,  Mas'r,  you  keep  it,  please.  Mos'  likely  you'll 
have  need  er  it  right  'way  fer  some  pore  folkses 
what's  worse  off  nor  these  is.  But  I  is  ever  so 
much  'bleege  ter  you,  an'  I  wanter  know  one  thing, 
please."  Tall  woman  that  she  was,  she  must  look 
up  to  meet  his  eyes.  "I  jes'  wish,  Mas'r,  you'd 
tell  me  yo's  reel  name.  T'ain't  jes'  John,  is  it?" 

"My  name?"  The  harsh  features  lighted  with 
their  wonderful  smile.  "  I've  been  spoken  by  so 
many  names  of  late  that  I  almost  forget  my  own. 
'Thief,'  'ruffian,'  'assassin,'  and  worse.  But  the 
real  one " 

He  stopped;  his  far-seeing  hunter's  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  mounded  hills  beyond  the  river.  His 
lips  moved  still,  but  no  sound  came.  Channing, 
all  unknowing,  listened  for  the  word  keenly  as  he 
would  have  listened  had  he  known  that  five  years 
later  it  would  peal  from  the  trumpets  of  the  world 


Voila  la  Commune!  101 

and  echo  from  every  tented  slope,  the  war-cry  of 
a  nation. 

"  'Scuse  me  Mas'r,"  murmured  Persis,  impatient 
to  be  gone.  He  turned  to  her  again. 

"I  was  just  looking  at  those  hills,"  he  said, 
absently.  "We  may  need  them,  some  day.  We 
could  fortify  the  slopes  towards  the  river,  and  the 
ravines  at  the  sides  would  furnish  some  protection. 
My  name?  Well,  as  I  told  you,  I  have  a  good 
many.  But  most  of  my  friends  call  me  old  John 
Brown.11 


CHAPTER  VII 

TH  E   AM  B  E  R  DAY 

"THE  river  is  sleepy  this  morning,  Diane.  Look 
at  its  eyelashes !" 

"Where?" 

"I  thought  you  could  see  things!"  Petit  Clef 
put  out  a  masterful  finger.  "Follow  it — there, 
where  the  water  curls  up  tight  around  the  Montrose 
shore.  Can't  you  see  them,  long  and  black  and 
straight?" 

"Oh,  the  willow  shadows!" 

Petit  Clef  sniffed.  "Yes.  You  are  very  blind 
to-day,"  he  continued,  patiently.  "It  depresses 
me.  Perhaps  you  behold  something  more  to  your 
taste.  Ah !  There  is  the  Captain  Channing's  sail 
boat,  and  she  comes  this  way.  She  is  a  haughty 
lady,  is  it  not  so  ? " 

"  I  do  not  interest  myself  in  the  sail-boat  of  the 
Captain  Channing." 

"She  tiptoes  along  the  water,  as  if  she  feared 
to  wet  her  fine  gilt  heels.  Once  or  twice  she  has 
drenched  that  white  robe;  wait  till  there  comes  a 
real  storm,  when  the  river  crawls  like  a  gray  snake, 
and  the  sky  is  streaked  brown  and  green  like  your 
painted  tortoise-shell.  Then  you  shall  see  her  bow 

102 


The  Amber  Day  103 

to  the  wind ;  then  she  is  humble,  a  slave  before  her 
master ! 

"Now  she  is  just  a  moth-wing."  Petit  Clef 
flattened  himself  on  the  rim  of  the  bluff  and  peered 
down.  "  But  a  giantess  among  moths.  The  sky- 
river  is  not  half  so  blue  as  the  earth-river ;  but  when 
it  does  ripple,  it  charms  one.  When  I  awoke, 
before  sunrise,  this  morning,  it  was  full  of  tiny 
white  waves,  that  never  broke.  Where  are  you 
going,  Diane?" 

"I  am  going  to  the  Phalanstery." 

Petit  Clef  inspected  the  sail-boat,  which  had 
rounded  to  the  landing  just  below  them.  "M'sieu 
Channing  brings,  in  all  likelihood,  some  word  for 
the  Pere  Cabet.  He  will  consider  me  too  small  to 
be  intrusted  with  it,  therefore  he  will  go  on  to  the 
Phalanstery.  The  Pere  Cabet  is  much  occupied 
to-day." 

Diane  hesitated. 

"M'sieu  le  Capitaine  is  neither  bear  nor  ogre. 
One  says  in  the  town  that  he  is  to  be  betrothed  to 
his  cousin,  that  Mademoiselle  Rose  whom  you  have 
not  yet  seen.  Myself,  I  have  viewed  her  only  from 
the  hill-top,  when  she  has  rowed  past  in  the  skiff 
with  him.  Such  hair !  Black  as  Brother  Felix's 
pitch-kettle,  and  heaped  up  till  you  would  think 
her  little  neck  would  break  beneath  it.  And  she 
laughs  like  the  falling  waters  in  my  birch  hollow." 

"Perhaps  he  comes  only  to  talk  with  Brother 
Paul  at  the  smithy." 


104  Diane 

"That  is  very  likely.  This  is  droll,  is  it  not, 
Mademoiselle,  that  he  sends  himself  to-day  upon 
his  errands,  and  does  not  send  his  aide,  the  Lieutenant 
Palmer?  Perhaps  he  figures  to  himself  that 
M'sieu  Palmer  has  come  here  a  sufficient  number 
of  times  for  his  own  good.  Let  us  see,  Mademoiselle. 
He  came  one  week  since,  to  bring  the  broken  chains 
for  Brother  Paul  to  weld  them.  He  saw  you  then, 
for  the  first  time.  That  was  upon  a  Tuesday.  On 
Wednesday  he  came  again,  to  see  how  soon  the 
repairing  would  be  done.  Helas,  he  has  learned 
that  the  chains  were  mended,  completement,  and 
that  nothing  remained  for  him  to  do  save  to  carry 
them  back  to  the  boat !  He  went  away  with  them, 
most  mournful;  disappointment  wrapped  him  like 
a  cloak.  But  on  the  next  morning  he  was  here  once 
more,  tout  joyeux,  distracted  to  learn  whether 
Brother  Paul  would  be  willing  to  sharpen  the  great 
drills  for  him,  in  case  it  should  some  day  become 
necessary.  He  was  much  fatigued  by  his  row  up 
the  river,  this  poor  M.  le  Lieutenant;  he  must 
remain  and  rest  in  the  library  until  the  hour  of 
noon,  while  the  Pere  Cabet  made  clear  to  him  the 
principles  of  the  Commune,  and  Mademoiselle 
Diane  sat  by  and  corrected  his  last  manuscripts. 
And  on  Sunday,  while  we  were  gone  to  the  house 
of  M.  1'Ami  Barclay,  has  he  come  also,  and  sat 
for  an  hour  entire  alone  upon  this  bluff,  forlorn  as 
a  young  owl,  though  most  beautiful  to  look  upon, 
in  his  uniform,  with  those  buttons  of  gold.  The 


The  Amber  Day  105 

Pere  Cabet  would  have  received  him  gladly  in  the 
library ;  but  he  had  interest  in  the  view  alone.  Eh, 
bien !  Who  would  dream  that  this  elegant  could 
achieve  so  suddenly  the  soul  of  a  poet !" 

Diane  pouted,  pink,  and  gathered  up  her  flowing 
gown. 

"The  Capitaine  Channing  is,  as  I  have  said, 
neither  bear  nor  ogre."  Petit  Clef  rolled  a  grass- 
blade  between  his  palms,  then  put  it  to  his  lips 
with  a  deafening  whistle.  Channing,  grounding 
his  boat,  glanced  up  and  recognised  the  two  figures 
silhouetted  against  the  radiant  morning  sky.  He 
flourished  his  cap  with  a  gesture  of  delighted 
greeting. 

"Now  that  you  have  made  him  perceive  us,  I 
suppose  that  I  must  remain.  But  I  do  not  wish 
to  talk  with  Monsieur-  Channing.  I  cannot  forget 
that  it  was  he  who  brought  that  Captain  Jean  to 
the  Phalanstery.  Even  if  he  believed  his  words 
true,  they  were  cruel — oh,  they  were  cruel !  All 
these  twelve  days  since,  the  Pere  Cabet  has  gone 
about  like  one  stricken.'* 

"It  is  not  pleasant  to  be  shaken  awake." 

"  Petit  Clef !  You  know  that  he,  like  all  of  us, 
believes " 

"Surely  he  believes.  And  he  preaches  that 
each  must  think  for  himself,  is  it  not  so?  Then 
why  do  you  not  think,  Mademoiselle?  And 
why  do  you  riot  believe  as  your  reason  bids 
you  to  do?" 


io6  Diane 

"But  mon  Pere  Cabet — he  has  made  the  Com 
mune.  And  what  he  declares  is  right." 

"And  so  you  must  go  blindfold."  Petit  Clef 
stood  up.  "This  is  too  good  a  day  to  be  wasted 
with  people.  Let  us  run  to  the  woods  as  soon  as 
M'sieu  Channing  goes  away.  Watch  him  climb 
that  hill !  There  were  Norse  gods  once  who  used 
to  mount  the  cliffs  like  that,  as  if  the  air  tossed 
them.  And  they  looked  as  he  does,  tall  men  with 
blue  eyes  and  fair  hair " 

"I  do  not  admire  blond  men.  And  such  hair! 
Like  buttercups." 

"Like  new  gold  money.  I  salute  you,  M'sieu 
le  Capitaine.  We  are  pleased  to  meet  you."  He 
put  a  brown  leaf  of  a  hand  into  Channing's  big 
palm;  his  greeting  was  that  of  the  complacent 
seigneur.  Channing  flushed  with  amusement  and 
pleasure.  He  put  out  his  free  hand  to  Diane,  who 
accepted  it,  much  to  her  later  marvelling. 

"You're  just  the  people  that  I've  come  to  see," 
he  said.  "It's  most  obliging  of  you,  to  meet  me 
on  the  way.  My  cousin,  Rose  Faulkner,  has  sent 
me  to  ask  of  you,  Mademoiselle,  if  you  will  not 
come  to  see  her.  She  is  here  to  spend  a  month  or 
so  with  her  father,  Major  Faulkner,  who  super 
intends  our  work  down  here.  She  planned  to  visit 
you  last  week,  but  the  morning  we  were  to  have 
come  she  slipped  on  a  wet  plank  and  sprained  her 
knee  so  badly  that  she  hasn't  been  able  to  walk 
since.  She  and  I  have  known  each  other  since  we 


The  Amber  Day  107 

were  little  cubs  back  in  Belhaven;  she's  near  your 
age,  and  she  has  lived  in  France."  He  coloured 
more  deeply  at  the  shy  interest  in  her  eyes.  "I 
think  you'd  both  like  to  know  each  other.  She's 
pretty  lonesome ;  you  see,  she  can't  leave  the  steamer, 
except  when  Palmer  or  I  can  be  spared  to  take  her 
about  a  little  in  the  skiff.  We  have  sent  for  her 
horse,  so  she  will  be  able  to  ride  about  before  long; 
but  the  days  are  pretty  tedious  just  now.  So  she 
has  sent  me  up  as  her  messenger,  to  beg  you  to  take 
pity  and  row  down  with  me  to  spend  to-day  with 
her.  And  it  will  add  greatly  to  our  pleasure  if  you, 
sir,  will  accompany  us." 

Diane  considered  the  matter  gravely.  It  was 
an  idea  most  fantastic,  to  journey  down  the  river 
for  an  entire  day,  in  the  care  of  this  man,  almost  a 
stranger,  and  under  the  chaperonage  of  a  child; 
but  people  did  many  unseemly  things  in  this  weird 
America.  In  the  Commune  it  was  even  per 
mitted  betrothed  man  and  maid  to  talk  together 
without  espial.  She  had  been  told  that  they 
were  allowed  to  go  so  far  as  to  make  choice,  under 
some  formal  limitations,  as  to  who  that  betrothed 
should  be;  this  was  beyond  her  credence,  as  yet. 
But  this  was  no  time  for  meditation.  She  must 
give  a  direct  answer.  A  refusal,  certainly,  but 
worded  graciously  as  her  lips  could  frame  it. 

However,  Petit  Clef  saved  her  the  effort.  The 
child  seldom  asserted  himself,  but  when  he  did  so 
it  was  with  point  and  despatch,  "  Give  you  grace, 


io8  Diane 

M'sieu  Channing.  I  shall  be  content  to  go  with 
you.  And  for  you,  Mademoiselle,  shall  I  not  say 
the  same?" 

"But  the  Pere  Cabet " 

"The  Pere  Cabet  will  give  permission  when  he 
learns  that  you  will  be  in  good  hands.  We  will  go, 
M'sieu  le  Capitaine  and  myself,  and  request  it  of 
him.  Meanwhile,  Mademoiselle,  your  gown  will 
not  do — no,  nor  your  shoes.  Thicker  and  darker 
garments  are  needed  for  such  a  voyage.  While  you 
attire  yourself,  we  will  speak  for  you." 

When  Oberon  draws  a  friendly  sword,  the  lucky 
mortal  does  well  to  leave  the  field  to  his  champion. 
Channing  said  never  a  word  as  he  walked  beside  the 
silent  girl  through  the  fields  to  Pere  Cabet.  Petit 
Clef  followed  indolently,  without  a  glance  their  way. 
As  deep  as  one  might  read,  there  was  more  of  vernal 
mischief  than  of  vernal  beneficence  in  his  small 
countenance. 

Pere  Cabet  gave  affable  consent.  The  scene  of 
the  week  before  still  rankled,  but  in  such  volcanic 
times  it  is  well  to  be  on  good  terms  with  one's 
neighbours.  But  in  the  face  of  his  permission  and 
her  own  curiosity  as  to  the  great  river,  Diane  all 
but  rebelled  at  the  last  moment.  Petit  Clef  had 
striven  to  do  her  a  favour,  she  was  assured;  but 
there  are  times  when  one  prefers  to  govern  one's 
own  affairs.  Yet  it  was  most  kind  of  this  strange 
demoiselle  to  send  so  gracious  an  invitation.  She 
would  do  her  best  to  give  her  some  distraction; 


The  Amber  Day  109 

she  knew  only  too  well  what  that  loneliness  meant. 
Full  of  loving-kindness,  she  packed  her  violet- 
embroidered  bag  with  the  precious  volumes  of 
Pere  Cabet's  novel,  L'Icarie;  a  book  ©f  chansons 
taught  her  at  the  convent;  and  a  roll  of  drawings, 
the  work  of  Soeur  Gene  vie  ve,  representing  the 
convent  from  several  points  of  view,  surrounded  by 
florid  mountains  and  ambrosial  foliage.  She  hesi 
tated  a  little  over  the  sketches;  if,  by  any  chance, 
the  boat  should  be  wrecked  and  those  masterpieces 
lost,  the  calamity  would  be  all  but  insupportable. 
Nevertheless,  to  console  a  stranger,  one  must  give 
the  best  one  can. 

Channing  was  wise  enough  to  take  his  good 
fortune  coolly ;  but  he  breathed  deep,  as  one  breathes 
in  a  dream.  He  had  not  dared  to  hope  that  she 
would  come;  the  undertaking  had  been  beset  with 
perils.  In  the  first  place,  be  it  admitted  to  his 
shame,  he  had  manoeuvred  for  hours  to  beguile 
Rose  Faulkner  into  sending  the  invitation.  Now, 
Rose  Faulkner  was  a  clear-eyed  young  person,  who 
giggled  unkindly  at  his  lumbering  strategy,  and 
took  much  impish  joy  in  evading  his  net  until  she 
saw  how  grievous  was  the  discouragement  of  the 
fisher.  Then,  like  a  gallant  lady,  she  suffered  her 
self  to  be  enmeshed,  smiling  meanwhile  at  his 
tattered  mask  of  indifference.  It  was  really  too 
absurd  to  see  how  completely  both  boys  were 
captivated  by  a  fair  new  face  and  a  quaint  speech. 
Sydney  Palmer  was  forever  falling  in  love  anew; 


no  Diane 

but  Bob  had  always  been  so  sensible !  She  would 
never  have  looked  for  such  nonsense  in  Bob. 
Probably  the  girl  was  a  whim  of  the  moment. 
At  all  events,  if  she  were  as  winsome  as  they 
declared  her,  she  would  help  to  pass  a  weary  day. 

Armed  with  the  invitation,  Channing  knew  that 
there  were  still  lions  in  the  way.  For  one  thing, 
he  felt  that  Diane  was  subtly  hostile  towards  him: 
just  why,  he  was  more  than  eager  to  learn.  Whether 
she  disliked  him  for  his  own  sake,  or  merely  held 
him  in  disfavour  as  a  meddler  who  had  dared  to 
criticise  the  Commune,  was  the  great  question. 
On  its  answer  depended  the  success  of  the  day. 
Then  she  might  feel  that  her  dignity  would  not 
permit  her  to  make  the  initial  visit.  The  trip  with 
him  was  still  another  obstacle;  to  a  girl  of  her 
Continental  upbringing,  it  might  seem  insurmount 
able.  Moreover,  Pere  Cabet's  wishes  must  be 
consulted ;  this  request  would  give  the  older  man  a 
tempting  opportunity  to  retaliate  for  his  humilia 
tion  of  their  last  meeting.  But  now  his  fears 
were  as  spaniels  that  fawned  at  his  feet.  He 
could  have  shouted  his  delight  to  the  courtesying 
willows. 

Diane  seated  herself  demurely  in  the  bow;  Petit 
Clef  curled  up  beside  Channing  amidships.  Months 
before,  Petit  Clef  had  charmed  Channing  by  his 
beauty  and  his  eerie  wit ;  to-day,  for  the  first  time, 
he  seemed  a  real  child,  transformed  into  boyhood 
by  his  human  mischief.  Channing  vowed  a  fishing 


The  Amber  Day  in 

trip  and  a  new  knife  to  Robin  Goodfellow,  which 
pledge  he  straitly  kept. 

"  It  is  not  a  true  day,"  declared  Petit  Clef,  sliding 
his  hand  through  the  water.  "  It  is  make-believe, 
boat  and  sky  and  all.  And  that  which  is  to  happen 
will  be  make-believe,  also.  To-morrow,  Made 
moiselle,  we  shall  awaken  to  find  it  the  same  old 
world." 

"Not  quite  the  same,"  said  Channing  under  his 
breath. 

Yet  surely  it  was  a  day  of  dream,  too  exquisite 
to  be  real.  Behind  them  glinted  the  river,  so  dim 
and  tender  a  blue,  it  seemed  builded  up  of  layers 
of  smoke ;  veiled  in  the  morning  fog,  the  little  town 
stood  carved  in  mother-of-pearl  against  the  liquid 
sky.  The  ruined  Mormon  temple,  now  but  a  vast 
splendid  shell,  reared  its  arrogant  front  among 
the  huddled  Commune  cottages;  softened  by  cloud 
and  distance,  it  was  itself  a  great,  imperfect  pearl. 
They  sailed  so  close  to  shore  that  the  breath  of  low- 
growing  orchards  flung  out  to  them  the  sweetest 
caress  of  the  spring.  Hedge  and  hollow  were  ruffled 
pink  with  wild  crab ;  the  tiny  valleys,  which  dimpled 
the  hills  to  the  south,  were  so  many  cups  of  emerald, 
brimmed  with  the  foam  of  the  birches.  Over  all, 
sweeter  than  all  beside,  there  came  to  them  the  wild, 
enraptured  cry  of  the  mating  thrush,  that  bird  whose 
woven  music  links  in  a  mesh  of  gold  the  earth 
and  sky. 

"I   like   the   young   hickory-trees   best,"   volun- 


ii2  Diane 

teered  Petit  Clef.  "They're  lean,  but  they  have 
courage ;  they  do  not  even  cry  out  when  you  swing 
upon  them.  The  willows — bah  !  '  If  you  will  break 
me,  then  break  me,'  they  say.  And  they  yield, 
snap,  like  corn-pith.  Laches !  Only  the  hickories 
are  the  real  gentlemen  of  trees." 

"And  the  poplars,  Petit  Clef?" 

"You,  M'sieu  Channing,  who  know  the  river! 
They  are  the  river's  sisters;  they  ripple  always  as 
the  waves  run  below.  And  they  fret  because  they 
must  stay  ashore,  and  cannot  go  on  and  on  with 
the  great  water.  If  you  would  listen,  you  would 
hear  them  grumble  together." 

"And  what  do  they  say?" 

"Only  your  own  ears  can  tell  you."  Petit  Clef 
winced  beneath  a  grim  and  sudden  dread  of  being 
led  out  for  the  gayety  of  nations.  He  shrank  into 
himself  like  an  offended  mimosa. 

Now  Channing  lowered  sail,  and  skimmed  his 
way  warily  past  rocks  and  brush.  Half  a  mile 
away  swung  the  Government  fleet,  a  handful  of 
toy  boats,  dazzling  white,  on  the  broad  glowing 
blue.  A  noisy  cheer  greeted  them  from  the  gang 
aboard  the  quarter-boat,  as  the  Celandine  crossed 
the  head  of  the  rapids  and  skirted  the  oily  eddies 
till  she  rocked  in  the  sweep  of  the  western  current. 
Diane  listened,  wide-eyed  and  serious,  as  Channing 
explained  the  plan  of  his  work,  and  pointed  out  the 
various  pieces  of  machinery.  She  stared  at  dredge 
and  drill -boat,  barge  and  cables,  with  solemn 


The  Amber  Day  113 

interest;  but  the  rapids  fascinated  her  beyond 
measure.  Amused  at  her  wonder,  Channing  brought 
the  Celandine  back,  with  cautious  strokes,  till  the 
soft  outward  fling  of  the  rapids  leaped  in  curdle 
of  froth  along  the  stern.  He  described  the  trail  of 
the  jagged  rock,  stretching  like  a  vast  serpent, 
turned  to  stone,  mile  after  mile  along  the  river-bed. 
He  pointed  out  the  boulders  which  had  served  as 
stations  when  the  Government  charts  were  drawn. 
Now,  in  low  water,  their  forked  crests  heaved  in 
black,  raking  ridges  through  the  foam.  Here  was 
the  Porcupine,  a  huge  spiked  ledge,  seeming  to 
swim  like  a  diving  mammoth  in  the  sweep  of  its  giddy 
eddies.  Many  a  canoe  had  been  ripped  into  shreds 
of  silky  bark  on  those  keen  spears.  Here  was  the 
Hilt,  a  slender  barb,  carved  in  flawless  lines  by  the 
fretting  water.  On  that  slim  haft,  which  looked 
too  slight  to  hinder  the  passing  of  the  little  Celandine, 
the  Cumberland  Belle  had  hung  for  hour  after 
hour,  with  straining  engines  and  thrashing  wheels, 
while  her  passengers  made  their  way  ashore  as  best 
they  might  on  skiffs  and  lighters,  barely  in  time 
to  escape  the  explosion  which  tore  the  splendid 
boat  into  hideous  fragments.  And  there  was 

Turk's  Head 

"  Ah,  this  Head  of  the  Turk,  myself,  I  have  heard 
of  that!"  Petit  Clef  awoke  suddenly.  "It  is 
there  that  you  have  so  nobly  rescued  M'sieu 
Palmer  from  the  jaws  of  this  most  unseemly  death." 
He  beamed  into  Channing's  crimson  face.  "He, 


ii4  Diane 

himself,  has  described  this  scene  most  grand  to  me; 
he  declares  that  upon  the  memory  of  it  he  feels 
himself  an  idiot  since  birth." 

"I  don't  blame  him,"  said  Channing,  grimly. 

"It  is  most  absorbing,  M'sieu,"  sighed  Diane, 
intent  on  the  rapids.  She  laid  her  hand  on  the 
gunwale,  then  snatched  it  away  as  a  high  wave 
licked  it  with  yellow  foam.  "  But  the  terror  of  it ! " 
Her  lips  paled,  her  blue  eyes  darkened,  strangely. 
Channing  looked  at  her,  perplexed. 

"But  the  rapids  are  not  dreadful  to  look  at, 
Mademoiselle." 

"  That  is  why  they  frighten  me.  The  little  waves 
are  so  soft,  and  so  merry,  and  yet  there  lie  the 
rocks,  all  waiting,  waiting,  like  sly,  patient  beasts. 
Ah,  cruel!" 

"  If  one  is  cautious,  he  can  cross  through  be 
tween  them  in  a  small  boat,  almost  anywhere. 
But  he  must  know  the  rocks  by  heart.  The 
eddies  are  the  real  danger.  Once  capsized,  the 
strongest  swimmer  could  not  make  a  rod  in 
the  whirlpool  below  Turk's  Head,  for  instance. 
I  have  rowed  near  it,  and  thrown  in  blocks 
and  sheets  of  paper.  You  would  think  that 
such  things  would  be  flung  off  on  the  surface ; 
but  the  eddy  sucks  down  everything.  Nothing 
ever  rises  again." 

Diane's  glance  sent  the  blood  tumbling  through 
his  veins.  Could  it  be  a  protest  against  his  wanton 
risk? 


The  Amber  Day  115 

A  white  gown  flickered  at  the  steamer  rail. 
Across  the  water  rang  a  fresh,  imperious  voice. 

"Since  I  cannot  come  to  meet  my  guest,  will 
you  please  bring  her  to  me,  Robert  ?  I  am  getting 
very  impatient;  in  an  hour  or  so  I  may  be  angry." 

Channing  gasped  an  apology,  and  rowed  madly 
to  the  steamer.  Palmer  stood  on  the  lower  deck, 
fresh  as  a  pink,  eager  to  lift  Diane  aboard;  Rose 
waited  to  receive  her  at  the  head  of  the  stairs. 
Afterwards,  Channing  wished  that  he  might  have 
been  on  deck,  to  read  the  look  of  greeting  which 
would  pass  from  each  to  the  other.  Between  two 
beautiful  women,  however  generous  of  mood,  there 
lies  always  a  barrier,  dim,  yet  formidable.  That 
barrier  lay  surely  between  Rose  Faulkner,  winsomest 
instance  of  her  day,  and  Diane  de  Lahautiere,  final 
exquisite  blossom  of  her  race.  But  remember  that 
the  elder  girl  knew  herself  hostess  to  a  stranger  in  a 
strange  land;  while  the  younger  was  as  yet  a  child, 
a  convent  darling,  shy  as  the  white  violets  beneath 
the  cloister  wall.  The  barrier  was  levelled — at 
least,  for  to-day. 

Rose  led  Diane  to  the  tiny  stateroom,  which  she 
had  made  a  nest  of  daintiness  and  colour.  She 
exclaimed  in  delight  over  the  song-book  and  the 
drawings ;  in  her  sweet,  tripping  French  she  thanked 
Diane  so  cordially  for  the  loan  of  the  bulky  novel 
that  Diane  promised  to  send  her,  by  early  messenger, 
Pere  Cabet's  "History  of  the  Revolution,"  in  three 
volumes,  and  copies  of  all  the  Propaganda.  She 


n6  Diane 

loosened  the  wide  ribbons  beneath  the  girl's  chin, 
and  took  off  the  great  scoop-bonnet  with  tender 
touches.  That  motherly  grace  towards  a  younger, 
with  which  the  South  endows  her  daughters,  was 
Rose's  unfailing  charm ;  she  could  no  more  withhold 
her  hands  from  gentle  courtesies  than  she  could 
crush  the  wave  from  her  dark  hair.  It  was  like 
being  with  the  Sisters  once  more,  thought  Diane; 
only  that  this  was  so  tall  and  beautiful  a  sister, 
with  laughing  eyes,  and  red  lips  set  for  merry 
speech.  Ah,  as  Petit  Clef  had  said,  it  could  not 
be  a  real  day  !  To-morrow  she  would  waken  to  face 
the  griefs  of  a  house  divided,  and  to  see  the  old  man 
whom  she  loved  as  father  and  mother  fail  hourly 
beneath  the  shame  of  his  people's  denial.  To-day 
was  her  hour  of  respite.  She  must  store  up  pleasure 
for  the  dark  hours  to  come. 

Channing  was  at  first  embarrassed,  then  jubilant 
over  the  triumph  of  his  scheme.  Her  shyness  had 
made  her  seem  so  cold  and  proud  that  he  dreaded 
the  impression  she  might  make  upon  his  friends. 
But  now,  as  he  saw  the  Major's  open  admiration,  and 
Rose's  gay  approval,  he  realised  that  her  dignity 
was  a  thing  for  rejoicing,  a  charm  most  eloquent. 
He  kept  his  complacence  well  in  hand;  but  Rose 
read  his  delight  in  every  glance.  She  did  not  look 
at  him  often  that  day. 

With  Rose  tucked  luxuriously  into  her  cushions 
astern,  and  Palmer  and  Channing  at  the  oars,  they 
paddled  for  miles  along  the  lovely  Illinois  shore, 


The  Amber  Day  117 

stopping  now  and  then  while  Channing  climbed  the 
bank  for  a  branch  of  white-starred  dogwood  or  an 
armful  of  wild  cherry.  They  dined  in  state  on  a 
tiny  island,  where  a  fire  had  been  kindled  and  the 
brush  cleared  away  in  readiness  for  them.  Twice 
they  roused  hares  from  their  wary  browsing ;  while 
they  ate,  a  fawn,  dappled  like  the  still  reaches 
of  water  below,  crept  through  the  brush  on  the 
mainland,  not  fifty  yards  away,  and  halted  to  stare 
at  them;  then,  at  Palmer's  whistle,  it  fled,  bleating 
in  panic,  with  a  clatter  of  tiny  hoofs.  Diane's  eyes 
grew  very  wide  and  dark.  She  glanced  toward 
the  shore  more  than  once  during  the  meal.  To  be 
sure,  the  Pere  Cabet  had  said  that  the  buffalo  and  the 
Indians  were  no  longer  aggressive ;  but  in  a  country 
so  savage  it  is  well  to  keep  a  watchful  eye. 

At  sunset  the  scoop-bonnet  and  the  violet  bag 
were  brought  out  once  more.  The  two  girls,  grown 
intimate  in  the  one  happy  day,  laid  plans  for  another 
visit,  while  they  said  good-bye.  Of  the  three, 
Petit  Clef  was  perhaps  the  most  reluctant  to  depart. 
Rose  had  won  his  heart  completely;  Diane  owned 
to  her  first  jealous  prick  when  she  saw  him  cling  to 
her  fair  shoulder,  unwilling  to  be  gone.  Hampered 
by  her  shyness  and  her  distrust  towards  all  the 
colonists,  she  had  spent  weeks  in  winning  the  place 
which  Rose's  imperious  fun  and  tender  hand  had 
made  for  her  in  a  day. 

As  they  stood  waiting  for  the  skiff,  Major  Faulk 
ner,  scarlet  and  beaming,  hurried  aft  and  signalled 


Diane 

the  men  on  the  drill-boat,  which  hung  at  anchor  close 
to  the  rapids.  Channing  caught  Diane's  arm  as  she 
would  have  entered  the  skiff. 

"The  Major  commands  a  salute  for  you,  Made 
moiselle,"  he  said. 

There  rose  a  mutter,  then  a  rending  roar.  The 
river  heaved  beneath  their  feet,  then  leaped  in 
yellow  masses  from  its  bed.  Like  the  tusks  of 
some  hideous  river-beast,  there  shone  for  an  instant 
row  upon  row  of  toothed  rock,  gleaming  black 
beneath  the  froth.  The  jaws  of  the  rapids ;  the  jaws 
of  death. 

Even  as  they  opened,  the  waves  swept  down  again. 
The  pool  reeled  and  spun,  a  seething  kettle  of  brown 
water  and  spray.  A  moment  more,  and  the  strong 
downward  current  had  hushed  the  tumult  like  a 
wizard's  touch.  Only  the  crest  of  Turk's  Head  and 
the  glint  of  the  Hilt  rose  as  ever  above  the  dance 
of  the  rapids. 

Rose  clapped  her  hands  and  laughed;  Petit  Clef 
smiled  in  calm  approval.  Diane  thanked  the 
Major  in  the  longest  and  most  courtly  phrases  that 
her  little  tongue  could  turn,  whereat  the  old  gentle 
man  grew  red  as  any  turkey-cock  for  satisfaction. 
Only  Channing  knew  how  she  trembled  as  he  helped 
her  into  the  skiff.  Rose  watched  them  from  her 
cushioned  chair ;  her  expression  might  not  readily  be 
deciphered. 

A  mile  north  of  the  rapids,  the  river  spread 
motionless,  a,  sea  of  glass,  ribbed  with  rosy  fire. 


The  Amber  Day  119 

The  last  sunset  clouds  were  as  stately  galleons,  full- 
sailed,  adrift  across  the  waveless  blue.  In  the  pure 
light,  the  young  trees  across  on  the  Iowa  shore 
stood  ranked  like  boyish  soldiers,  clad  in  silver 
mail. 

"Mademoiselle!" 

Diane  looked  up,  finger  on  lip.  Worn  out  by  his 
long  day,  Petit  Clef  had  fallen  asleep  on  her  shoulder. 
Light  as  he  was,  he  made  a  tedious  weight  on  her 
frail  arm,  but  she  shook  her  head  when  Channing 
tried  to  lift  him. 

"He  loves  to  be  petted,  M'sieu;  I  have  been  too 
stupid  to  see  it.  I  have  feared  to  offend  him;  it 
would  be  like  caressing  a  squirrel.  But  since  I  have 
beheld  him  with  Mademoiselle  Rose,  I  know  what 
he  would  like." 

"But  you  will  be  tired." 

"I?     I  am  never  tired." 

"But  sometimes  you  are  annoyed,  are  you  not? 
I  annoyed  you,  I  know,  the  second  time  that  I  ever 
saw  you — that  morning  on  the  bluffs.  And  then 
you  did  not  like  the  explosion." 

"You  are  mistaken,  M'sieu.  I  was  not  annoyed 
that  morning.  Nor  this  second  time,  although  it 
was  a  terrible  thing  to  see.  It  was  not  fear  that 

made  me  seem  so  cowardly;  it Monsieur,  do 

you  sometimes  know  before  of  those  things  which 
are  destined  to  take  place?" 

"I  don't  understand." 

Diane's  cheeks  burnt  pink.     "Then  my  thought 


i 20  Diane 

will  sound  very  foolish.  It  is  to  feel  that  some 
strange  event,  some  misfortune,  is  close  at  hand, 
and  that  one  cannot  thrust  it  back.  To  feel  that 
this  grief,  this  crisis,  must  come  to  you,  inevitable- 
ment,  and  that  you  cannot  swerve  from  your  way 
to  escape." 

"I  know,  now."  In  truth,  he  knew.  "But  we 
won't  let  the  rapids  bother  you.  Next  time  that 
we  row  down  I  shall  not  take  you  so  near  to  them. 
There  is  really  nothing  to  fear,  dear  Mademoiselle." 

"I  do  not  fear  those  waters — no!"  She  drew 
herself  proudly  erect,  then  bent  again  hastily  over 
the  sleeping  child. 

Channing  noted  the  flower-like  droop  of  her  little 
head ;  his  slow  masculine  eye  roved  for  the  first  time 
over  her  attire,  and  realised  its  harmony  with  the 
loveliness  which  it  framed.  Her  violet  muslin 
gown,  with  its  flutter  of  silky  flounces,  each  bordered 
with  wreathed  pansies,  showed  the  arched  foot  in 
its  purple  prunella  shoe ;  her  hair  shone  redly  bronze 
beneath  the  violet  velvet  scoop-bonnet;  her  little 
mitted  hands  were  clasped  round  Petit  Clef,  whose 
head  lay  like  a  golden  petal  against  her  cheek. 
She  felt  Channing 's  scrutiny  and  was  seriously 
content.  It  was  a  melancholy  tint,  this  purple, 
but  it  was  the  most  serviceable  gown  in  her  ward 
robe.  She  would  have  liked  to  wear  the  pale-blue 
robe,  with  the  flounces  edged  in  rosebuds,  for  it 
would  have  seemed  more  gala;  but  in  so  savage  a 
land  one  must  make  concessions.  She  did  not  know 


The  Amber  Day  121 

why  she  had  dressed  herself  in  the  purple  frock. 
Neither  knows  the  violet  the  reason  for  its  hue. 

"The  Commune  is  at  rest,  Mademoiselle,*'  said 
Channing,  presently.  He  pointed  to  the  hill.  The 
hush  of  twilight  brooded  on  the  river;  the  square 
white  houses,  guarded  by  the  broad  bulk  of  the 
Phalanstery  and  by  the  great  blind  Samson,  the 
Temple,  seemed  a  City  of  Peace.  Yet  the  same 
thought  flashed  in  their  meeting  eyes. 

"Have  no  fear,  Mademoiselle."  He  laughed 
unsuccessfully.  "The  Commune  has  not  reached 
the  rapids — not  yet." 

They  climbed  the  long  hills  in  silence.  Petit 
Clef  slept  on  in  Channing's  grasp;  Diane  followed, 
her  arms  overflowing  with  spiced  treasure,  plundered 
from  bush  and  hollow.  They  crossed  through 
orchard  after  orchard;  it  was  as  though  they  fled 
a  gauntlet  of  sweet  white  ghosts. 

At  a  turn  in  the  road  they  met  a  low  chaise, 
drawn  by  a  fat  and  tranquil  pony.  It  jogged 
along  so  slowly  that  Diane  had  time  to  recognise 
the  broad  Quaker  hat  and  the  generous  frame 
beneath  it.  Delighted,  she  called  his  name,  and 
tossed  a  blossoming  apple  spray  to  him  as  the 
chaise  rolled  past. 

Friend  Barclay  looked  back,  nodding  to  the  two 
figures,  half  seen  in  the  thickening  dusk.  Then 
he  turned  to  the  placid  face  at  his  side.  Deep 
wrinkles  settled  round  his  kindly  eyes.  His  voice 
took  on  a  grave  and  anxious  note. 


122  Diane 

"Thee  recalls  what  we  were  saying  of  those 
children,  Margaret?" 

"I  do,  Stephen." 

"It  is  borne  in  upon  me  that  I  needed  not  to 
take  her  to  our  orchard.  She  will  find  her  way 
into  her  own  garden  without  my  aid." 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  PRICE 

THERE  was  no  mistaking  that  sound;  that  low, 
recurrent  mutter,  which  jarred  upon  the  ear  like 
a  purring  organ-note.  Overhead,  the  sky  dazzled; 
a  warm  breeze  tossed  Rose's  riding -plumes  against 
her  cheek.  Again  it  came — that  ominous  pulse. 
Rose  wheeled  her  pony  and  urged  him  through  the 
thickets  towards  the  river  bank,  where  she  could 
see  the  western  sky. 

The  pony  nickered  protest.  Rose  clipped  him 
sharply.  He  stopped  short,  head  down.  Rose, 
assured  in  her  ignorance,  struck  her  small  spurred 
heel  against  his  flank.  He  leaped  forward,  crashing 
through  the  underbrush:  Rose's  frightened  cry 
was  drowned  in  the  crash  of  the  fall  as  horse  and 
rider  toppled  head-first  down  the  steep  bank  to  the 
sand  below. 

Rose  sat  up,  bruised  and  dizzy.  There  were 
no  bones  broken,  she  concluded;  even  her 
lame  knee  had  escaped  hurt.  The  pony 
stood  at  an  apprehensive  distance  and  viewed 
her  with  a  distrustful  eye;  the  broken  saddle 
dangled  from  his  back.  The  sunlight  was  of  a 
sudden  curiously  obscured,  as  if  it  shone  through 

"3 


124  Diane 

yellow  glass.  The  earth  shook  with  long,  slow 
cannonadings. 

"  And  I'm  three  miles,  at  least,  from  the  steamer," 
said  Rose,  coolly.  It  occurred  to  her  that  she 
had  been  worse  than  rash  to  take  this  long  ride 
alone,  through  unfamiliar  country.  She  limped 
to  the  shore  and  looked  down  the  river.  The  horizon 
was  a  mere  strip  of  greenish  light ;  above  it,  billow 
upon  billow,  weltered  the  storm.  As  she  looked,  a 
skiff  shot  round  the  bend  and  came  rapidly  towards 
her.  She  recognised  the  oarsman's  stooped  little 
figure  and  bright  red  head  with  a  gasp  of  relief 
which  betrayed  how  deeply  she  had  felt  her 
danger. 

11  Mr.  Hotter !     Oh,  Mr.  Motter ! " 

The  oarsman  looked  up ;  then  he  ducked  forward 
like  a  muskrat.  The  skiff  leaped  backward  under 
his  reversed  stroke;  in  another  breath  it  had 
slipped  behind  the  bend  again. 

"  What  possessed  him  to  run  away !  As  if  he 
was  afraid  of  me !  Mr.  Motter  1  Oh,  please  come 
back!" 

She  hobbled  as  far  down  the  beach  as  her  aching 
knee  permitted,  and  called  until  she  was  hoarse. 
As  she  was  about  to  turn  back  in  despair,  the 
skiff  slid  into  view  once  more  from  a  clump  of 
willows.  Motter  grounded  it  a  few  feet  away  and 
clambered  up  the  bank.  His  knees  knocked  to 
gether;  apology  was  writ  large  from  his  tumbled 
red  head  to  his  shuffling  feet. 


The  Price  125 

"  I  didn't  calk-late  on  its  bein'  you,  Miss  Faulkner, 
an'  I  was  scared  ter  come  tel  I  was  sure  who  it  mout 
be,  friend  er  foe,"  he  explained,  meekly.  "Ye've 
had  a  bad  fall  now,  ain't  ye?  Sure  ye  ain't  hurt 
noway  ?  Lucky  I  was  in  mischief  this  mornin' ; 
else  I  mightn't  have  happened  along." 

He  pulled  a  knife  from  his  pocket  and  began  to 
repair  the  broken  straps.  "Guess  ye  know  what 
we're  up  to,  bein'  as  ye 're  in  the  family,"  he  chuckled. 
"The  Underground's  a-doin'  a  big  business  lately. 
We  put  three  through  fer  Canady  last  week;  I  took 
one  of  'em  as  far  as  Foote's  Landing,  an'  the  day 
I  got  back  Cap'n  Channing  was  over  to  git  me  to 
help  with  this  next  load.  He  an'  Friend  Barclay 
air  over  there  in  the  woods  now."  He  motioned 
towards  the  Iowa  shore.  "  They've  had  word  they'll 
be  two  more  passengers  up  on  the  Rosy  Taylor  this 
mornin' ;  so  they're  waitin'  in  the  woods  to  take  'em 
off.  Ever  seen  Friend  Barclay's  woodpile?  I 
was  over  there  to-day,  an'  I  declare  he's  got  that 
room  fixed  up  fine  enough  fer  comp'ny.  It  was 
jest  a  strong  shed  with  the  wood  corded  up  over  it, 
to  begin  with;  but  now  he's  put  in  two  beds,  an'  a 
piece  of  rag  carpet,  an'  even  a  wash-bowl  an' 
pitcher.  Yer  oughter  see  it!" 

Rose  sat  in  dazed  silence. 

"We  can't  do  as  much  now  as  we  did  when  the 
river  was  froze  over,"  he  went  on,  cheerfully. 
"  I've  seen  'em  come,  a  dozen  to  oncet,  women  an' 
babies,  the  shoes  tore  off  their  feet ;  we'd  hide  'em 


t26  Diane 

in  Barclay's  woodpile,  an*  up  his  garret,  tel  we'd  get 
'em  clothed  an'  fed ;  then  we'd  take  'em  'cross  on  the 
ice,  an'  straight  into  Iowa  tel  we  struck  the  Beacons- 
ville  road,  an'  the  rest  was  easy.  Them  licensed 
hunters  never  seemed  to  think  we'd  be  smart  enough 
to  break  trail.  The  Cap'n  puts  most  of  the  brains 
into  the  business.  Friend  Barclay  is  always  the  one 
to  take  big  risks.  He  don'  care  what  happens,  so 
long  as  he  gits  'em  through.  He's  been  fined  three 
times  this  year  a'ready  fer  harbourin'  runaways.  I'm 
cautious  enough,  but  I  ain't  had  much  experience; 
but  Cap'n  Channing,  he  knows  how  ter  run  the 
whole  game,  an*  ter  run  it  the  safest  way.  He  did 
take  considerable  resk,  though,  when  he  brung 
that  there  Kansas  slave-runner,  Brown,  up  to  the 
Community,  an'  let  him  try  to  roust  them  up  ter 
doin'  the  same  thing.  It  ain't  no  use  to  talk  to 
them  Frenchies;  they're  too  busy  takin'  care  of 
themselves  ter  stop  an'  help  a  nigger  get  away. 
My — oh !  Look  at  that  storm  come  up !  An* 
there's  the  Rosy  Taylor,  's  I  live !  Well,  I  guess 
they're  all  ready.  See-Channing's  skiff  over  there  ? " 

Rose's  eye  followed  his  gesture.  There  was  no 
sign  of  life  on  the  opposite  shore  save  a  trim  sail 
boat  rocking  lightly  against  the  willows.  Its 
graceful  lines  and  snowy  paint  blurred  before  her 
eyes — the  Celandine. 

Through  the  still,  heavy  air  sounded  the  coughing 
whine  of  a  steamer;  around  the  bend  popped  a 
pudgy  little  stern-wheeler,  white-painted,  gilt -railed. 


The  Price  127 

Her  decks  were  piled  high  with  freight ;  she  bounced 
ahead  in  haste  before  the  lowering  sky,  comically 
eager,  as  a  plump  little  market-woman  plunges 
beneath  the  weight  of  her  baskets,  to  reach  home 
before  the  storm. 

"Aha!  Now  watch!"  Motter's  voice  shrilled 
high.  "  She's  a-layin'  to,  by  gorry !  Right  in  the 
middle  of  the  river  !  Now  comes  th'  fun  !" 

The  steamer  slackened  speed;  she  came  to  a  full 
stop  in  mid-channel.  As  the  paddles  ceased  to 
turn,  two  men  pushed  through  the  screen  of  willows 
and  leaped  into  the  Celandine.  They  reached  the 
steamer  in  a  dozen  strokes.  Two  women,  dressed 
as  Quakeresses,  and  closely  veiled,  awaited  them  on 
the  lower  deck. 

Their  movements  slid  with  panoramic  swiftness 
before  her  staring  eyes.  She  saw  the  men  greet  the 
two  women  heartily  and  as  though  they  addressed 
equals;  she  heard  the  captain's  triumphant  laugh 
as  he  signalled  for  full  speed  ahead.  The  skiff 
leaped  shoreward  under  Channing's  powerful  strokes ; 
in  another  minute  the  women  were  scudding  away 
behind  the  trees,  led  by  Friend  Barclay.  Channing 
sprang  back  into  the  boat  and  shot  away  down  the 
river.  She  could  all  but  see  the  play  of  the  great 
muscles  beneath  his  loose  sleeves. 

4 '  Those  women  were  Friends . ' '  She  spoke  through 
stiff  lips. 

"Good  disguise,  wa'n't  it?"  Motter  blinked  in 
tently  at  the  boat.  "Did  ye  hear  Cap'n  Stewart 


i28  Diane 

laugh  when  they  got  off  ?  Slipperiest  Undergrounder 
in  six  counties,  he  is.  Look  a'there,  now !" 

The  steamer's  deck  was  suddenly  a  place  of  mad 
commotion.  The  roustabouts  were  scuttling  like 
rats  behind  heaps  of  freight,  bent  on  places  of 
hiding;  the  captain  and  the  mate  supported  them 
selves  against  the  rail.  Their  roars  of  laughter  re 
echoed  from  the  mocking  bluffs. 

In  the  middle  of  the  deck  there  danced  and  spun 
a  tall,  lean  figure,  flourishing  a  long  knife.  He 
hopped  up  and  down  the  deck  in  a  ludicrous 
paroxysm  of  fury;  the  voice  of  his  execration 
reached  them  across  the  still  water.  With  each 
new  outburst  of  wrath  he  sprang  from  the  deck, 
as  a  pith-ball  rebounds  from  a  spent  sheet  of  rubber. 
There  was  something  monstrous  and  disgusting  in 
his  unbridled  rage.  He  was  at  once, an  absurdity 
and  a  humiliation. 

"Slave-grabber,"  grinned  Hotter.  "He  knowed 
those  women  was  aboard,  but  he  didn't  dast  try 
ter  seize  'em.  It's  agin  the  law  to  lay  hands  on  a 
state-room  door  oncet  the  passenger  pays  his  way 
an'  locks  'imself  in.  So  he's  been  a'settin'  at  their 
door,  like  a  pup  at  a  woodchuck  hole,  all  the  way 
up  from  St.  Louis;  wanted  to  git  a  little  sleep,  so 
the  Cap'n  promises  him  he  won't  make  no  landin' — 
not  tel  they  reach  Montrose.  An'  he  didn't  make 
no  landin',  neither;  he's  kept  his  word,  straight 
enough.  Watch  him,  now!  They'd  better  put 
'im  in  irons  ef  they  don't  want  their  own  niggers 


The  Price  129 

chased  overboard.  He's  goin'  to  make  trouble  fer 
Cap'n  Stewart ;  ya'as  he  is.  He'll  go  ashore  an' 
take  out  a  writ  agin'  the  Cap'n,  an'  the  Cap'n  '11 
have  him  caged  fer  makin'  a  rumpus  on  the  boat; 
by  time  he  gits  free,  they'll  be  clean  across  the 
Detroit  River.  He  can't  make  out  no  case  agin* 
the  boat.  But  if  he  gits  after  Barclay  an'  Chan- 
ning- " 

"  Please  help  me  on."  Rose  hobbled  to  the  pony 
and  clutched  the  rein. 

"  Why — why !  You're  white  as  plaster,  Miss 
Rose;  you  ain't  fitten  to  go  back.  An'  this  here 
storm -" 

"Please  give  me  a  mount,  Mr.  Motter." 

Motter  lifted  her  into  the  saddle.  "You  better 
ride  down  the  road  to  that  first  cabin " 

"I'm  going  home." 

"Look  here,  Miss  Rose,  you're  hurted  bad,  an* 
you  ought er  told  me." 

"I  am  not  hurt."  The  pony  reared  under  her 
whistling  lash.  His  mad  plunge  tore  the  rein  from 
Motter's  hand.  He  gaped  wildly  after  the  flying 
pair  as  they  disappeared  in  the  river  woods,  then 
turned,  perplexed,  to  his  boat. 

Rose  fled  on  down  the  beaten  trail.  The  rain 
had  come  at  last — great  hammering  drops;  every 
tree  was  an  ashen  flag  of  truce  before  the  terrible 
sky.  Drenched  and  beaten,  she  urged  the  horse 
on,  driven  by  blind  instinct;  for  she  was  aware  of 
none  of  these  things.  In  the  whirlwind  of  her 


i3°  Diane 

passion  there  was  no  room  for  the  discomforts  of 
time  and  place. 

The  horse  stopped,  trembling.  It  came  to  her 
slowly  that  she  had  reached  the  rapids  landing.  A 
few  rods  away  lay  the  steamer,  dimly  visible  through 
sheeted  rain.  A  skiff  was  fighting  its  way  inshore. 
She  watched  it  writhe  through  shallow  water  till 
the  bow  rasped  on  the  pebbles;  she  had  a  curious 
sense  of  having  known  the  rower  in  another  world, 
dream-distant. 

"Why,  Rose!'*  Channing  scrambled  ashore. 
"  Why,  Rose !  Has  anything  happened  ?  My  dear 
girl,  you're  a  dripping  sop.  You'll  be  sick  to  pay 
for  this!" 

There  was  neither  shame  nor  misgiving  in  his  up 
lifted  face.  So  he  had  fallen  too  far  to  care. 

He  stripped  the  water  from  his  sleeves  and  held 
up  his  arms,  laughing.  "  Come  along,  old  sis.  I'll 
carry  you  to  the  Celandine.  You  must  hurry  into 
some  dry  things,  before  the  ague  strikes  in.  You're 
terribly  pale,  dear.  Did  the  storm  frighten  you?" 

"I  don't  wish — to  go  in  the  Celandine — again." 

Rose  groped  for  the  whistle  with  which  she 
signalled  her  boatman,  and  blew  it  sharply. 

"  No,  I  don't  want  any  help  from  you.  I  can — 
dismount." 

"Rose!  Are  you  crazy?  What  under  the 
sun " 

She  looked  on  his  bewilderment  without  pity. 
She  pushed  his  hand  from  the  pommel  with  the  butt 


The  Price  131 

of  her  whip.  Charming 's  blood  ran  hot  as  hers; 
but  he  was  alarmed,  not  angered,  by  the  insult. 

"Rose,  what  has  come  over  you?  Surely  you 
didn't  mean  that.  Come !" 

"  Could  I  set  foot  in  your  boat  after  —  this 
morning?" 

Channing's  hand  fell  from  her  arm. 

"You're  one  of  our  own  family.  We've  loved 
you  and  trusted  you,  father  and  I,  as  we  did  each 
other.  You  are  an  officer  in  the  army " 

Channing  caught  his  breath.  The  pitiless  sen 
tences  lashed  him  white  and  sick. 

"Rose,  I  can't  take  this  from  you.  You  don't 
understand,  dear.  It's  the  only  right  thing  for  me 
to  do.  Yes,  I  know  it's  against  the  law.  And  the 
law  is  against " 

"  Thieves — and  traitors ! " 

"Rose!" 

She  struggled  from  her  horse.  "Don't,  please, 
Bob.  I  can't  listen." 

"You  shall  listen!  Rose,  you've  always  stood 
by  me — all  the  way  through.  When  we  were  little 
things  at  Belhaven,  it  never  made  any  difference 
what  sort  of  mischief  I  led  you  into,  you'd  never  let 
me  be  blamed.  No  matter  how  vexed  your  father 
might  be,  you  always  took  my  part.  Don't  you 
remember  the  time  we  ran  away  down  to  the  Fort, 
and  were  caught  in  that  thunderstorm?  I  fell  and 
cut  my  head,  and  you  tied  it  up  with  your  sash,  and 
helped  me  up  the  hill,  through  the  rain,  to  the  old 


132  Diane 

sentry-box.  It  was  nine  o'clock  that  night  before 
they  found  us.  Your  poor  little  arms  and  neck 
were  all  scratched  and  bloody,  and  you  were  so 
stiff  with  cold  that  you  couldn't  walk;  but  you 
wouldn't  let  your  father  give  me  a  harsh  word,  and 
you  ordered  Mammy  out  of  the  room  when  she 
began  to  scold  me.  You've  never  misjudged  me. 
You've  never  failed  me.  Rose,  if  you  have  any 
mercy  in  you,  don't  fail  me  now !" 

"It's  too  hideous.  The  disgrace  of  it!  The 
horror !  And  you,  a  Faulkner,  to  stoop  to  that ! 
No,  no;  don't  touch  me!"  She  thrust  him  away 
and  stumbled  down  the  beach.- 

Channing  did  not  try  to  detain  her.  His  eyes 
followed  her  till  she  was  blotted  from  sight  by  the 
rain.  His  face  settled  into  lines  and  hollows, 
curiously  pinched  and  gray.  Rose  was  not  to 
blame,  he  told  himself  steadily,  over  and  over. 
She  believed  in  slavery  as  the  institution  of  her 
fathers.  In  the  breaking  of  law  she  could  see 
nothing  but  evil,  even  though  the  law  itself  might 
be  false  to  the  nation  which  framed  it.  She  had 
struck  blindly ;  she  could  not  know  her  own  strength. 
It  was  not  worth  while  to  think  of  this,  perhaps. 
Yes,  assuredly  it  would  be  better  not  to  think. 

His  regular  work  was  finished  for  the  week,  and 
the  labourers  had  been  given  the  day  to  themselves 
because  of  the  rough  weather.  However,  thank 
God,  there  was  something  left  for  his  twitching 
muscles  to  do.  He  flung  himself  into  work  as 


The  Price  133 

another  man  might  have  flung  himself  into  carousal ; 
he  made  the  day  a  very  orgy  of  toil.  The  Major's 
protests  went  unheeded ;  he  worked  on  and  on ;  the 
sweat  of  tremendous  effort  beaded  upon  his  face. 
At  six  o'clock,  the  Major  dragged  him  away  to  the 
cabin,  promising  a  straight -jacket  on  the  morrow. 

"  You've  done  the  work  of  four  men  to-day t 
Bob,  you  young  fool!"  he  sputtered.  "What  was 
the  use?  And  in  soaked  clothes,  too,  at  this  time 
of  year!  What's  that?  You're  going  up  the 
river  yet,  to-night?" 

"The  drills  are  both  too  dull  to  use.  I'm  going 
to  take  them  up  to  Citizen  Paul  at  the  Commune, 
He's  the  best  blacksmith  anywhere  around." 

"Send  one  of  the  men." 

"It  will  be  done  more  promptly  for  me." 

The  Major's  eyes  opened  suddenly;  his  handsome 
mouth  pursed  in  a  soundless  whistle.  According  to 
his  worthy  imagination,  a  great  light  had  broken 
upon  him. 

"  Oh,  go  on,  if  you  like !  My  regards  to  Monsieur 
Cabet,  and  to  the  lovely  Miss  Diane.  Rose  would 
like  to  paddle  up  with  you,  I  dare  say,  but  she's  out 
of  sorts.  That  ride  in  the  rain  tired  her  amazingly. 
I  never  saw  her  look  as  badly  as  she  did  at  dinner, 
and  she  has  just  sent  word  that  she  won't  come  to 
supper  at  all.  What's  that?  You  don't  want 
any  supper,  either?  You'll  eat  before  you  leave 
this  boat,  I  can  tell  you  that,  young  man  I" 

The  meal  was  bread  of  humiliation.     As  soon  as 


134  Diane 

possible  he  excused  himself  and  went  away.  The 
storm  was  passing  at  last,  grim  sabaoth  of  cloud. 
Thunder  rumbled  still  in  high  hill-clefts;  but  the 
east  shone  roseate,  and  every  bush  and  hollow 
thrilled  with  exultant  pipings.  Channing  heeded 
the  calm  as  little  as  he  had  heeded  the  storm.  With 
the  quaint  mathematical  habit  which  ruled  all  his 
acts,  he  was  reckoning  a  long  account,  and  striving 
to  balance  it  with  a  Sum  unknown.  Vast,  surely; 
yet  one  can  ill  express  the  sum  of  human  suffering 
in  earthly  figures. 

Against  its  dim  score  he  set  the  items  of  his  dis 
content.  He  must  give  up  his  friends.  He  must 
resign  from  the  Army:  he  could  not  presume  to 
live  in  the  employ  of  the  country  whose  laws  he 
had  set  at  naught.  Ah,  that  Country !  Only  the 
man  alone  as  he  was  alone,  the  man  to  whom  that 
one  word  must  be  home  and  fire  and  shelter,  can 
fathom  its  meaning.  He  must  put  aside  his  hopes 
and  plans  for  advancement  in  his  work.  He  must 
crush  out  that  dearer  Hope,  as  yet  only  a  wing  to 
fancy.  He  must  wound  those  who  loved  him. 
The  Major,  whose  arm  and  counsel  had  never 
failed  him.  And — Rose. 

Rose,  his  ally;  Rose,  who  was  her  sweet  name. 
She  was  dearer  to  him  than  every  other  thing. 
They  had  romped  together  as  children;  they  had 
sustained  each  other  through  the  sieges  and  sallies 
of  their  several  love  affairs — never  a  one  of  their 
own,  be  it  said :  Rose  was  too  good  a  cotnra.de  fo^ 


The  Price  135 

that.  They  had  been  sister  and  brother,  cronies, 
friends.  She  was  the  one  confidante  that  he  had 
ever  known.  She  stood  in  the  high  niche  above  the 
altar  of  his  purest  thought.  The  other  things 
might  go,  he  told  himself  miserably.  He  could 
take  up  other  work;  he  could  make  for  himself  a 
new  place  among  men.  To  that  other  hope,  dim 
in  the  heart  of  dream,  he  had  no  right.  Soon  it,  too, 
would  be  lost  to  him.  But  let  him  hold  to  his  one 
treasure — the  trust  of  a  good  woman.  Then  all  the 
rest  might  go. 

He  climbed  the  shaggy  slope  to  the  Phalanstery, 
carrying  the  drills  across  his  shoulder.  The  Icarian 
girls,  prattling  at  their  white  doorstones,  glanced 
after  him  as  little  Roman  maidens  might  have 
glanced  after  a  Gothic  warrior.  *He  was  so  tall 
and  fair,  mon  Dieu,  so  unlike  their  short,  brisk 
brethren,  and  he  carried  those  enormous  rods  of 
iron  as  if  they  were  so  many  fagots  of  pine ! 
They  loved  to  see  him  bow  to  a  passer-by.  He 
had  no  manner,  none;  he  saluted  all  women  alike 
with  bared  head,  all  men  with  the  briefest  of  nods, 
even  to  the  great  Cabet;  he  made  no  distinction 
between  Mere  Drouet,  who  tended  the  babies,  and 
knew  not  how  to  write  her  name,  and  Citoyenne 
de  Rossigeac,  who  had  been  a  marquise  in  the 
old  days.  Unless — Ah!  behold  Mademoiselle 
Diane ! 

She  fluttered  from  the  vine-bound  door  to  meet 
him,  rose-flushed,  rippling  with  eager  laughter. 


136  Diane 

"  Oh,  she  has  come  with  you  !  Mademoiselle  Rose. 
Is  it  that  she  hides  herself  from  me?" 

Channing  was  not  chilled  by  the  knowledge  that 
this  gay  welcome  was  not  meant  for  him.  "Miss 
Rose  didn't  come;  no.  She's  not  feeling  well,  the 
Major  said." 

Diane  grew  sober.     "It  is  the  knee  again?" 

"I  can't  say.  She  was  out  in  the  storm  this 
morning.  Would  you  tell  me  where  to  find  Citoyen 
Paul?" 

"I?  I  do  not  know  where  he  may  be  at  this 
hour.  Petit  Clef,  come  help  us  to  find  him.  Leave 
thy  book,  little  brother;  come,  talk  with  us  instead." 

Petit  Clef  sprang  from  the  window-seat.  Chan 
ning  took  him  on  his  free  shoulder.  He  breathed 
deep  at  the  comforting  feel  of  the  soft  little  body. 

"Allons,  mes  braves!"  commanded  Petit  Clef, 
drumming  lightly  on  the  hand  which  supported 
him.  "  To  the  right — march  !  Through  the  potato- 
field  of  the  Commune,  past  the  house  of  Leon  the 
wood-chopper,  then  defile  through  the  cabbages 
of  Mere  Pouquet.  Charge  then  upon  the  Arsenal 
and  demand  that  they  render  up  to  you  Brother 
Paul,  maker  of  wagon-wheels.  Vite !  Night  and 
the  enemy  approach  us!" 

"  You  have  been  reading  too  much  of  the  great 
Napoleon." 

"Monsieur  Channing,  could  one  read  too  much 
of  him?" 

"Hush,  Petit  Clef !    To  please  me,  do  not  talk  of 


The  Price  137 

him."  Diane  lifted  beseeching  eyes  to  the 
child. 

"At  your  command,  Mademoiselle.  Ah,  behold 
Citoyen  Paul!"  They  stopped  at  the  smith's 
door.  "In  Mormon  days  this  was  the  Arsenal, 
Monsieur;  did  you  not  know?  Arsenal  we  call  it 
still,  though  it  is  a  harmless  smithy  below  and  a 
peaceful  carpenter-shop  above.  We  have  no  need 
for  weapons ;  he,  Citoyenne  Diane !  Even  though 
in  the  Council  they  make  threat  of  division,  and 
vow  that  blood  shall  flow  in  the  streets " 

"You're  talking  nonsense."  Channing  tossed 
the  boy  to  his  shoulder  again.  "  Let  us  go  outside 
and  wait  till  the  grinding  is  done.  We  can't  talk 
against  Citoyen  Paul's  wheel." 

He  found  a  dry  bench  for  Diane,  but  Petit 
Clef  refused  to  sit  with  them.  It  was  essential 
that  some  one  should  direct  the  repairs,  he 
explained.  Channing 's  invitation  was  promptly 
snubbed. 

"I  have  not  words  to  waste  on  those  who  do 
not  wish  to  hear,"  he  retorted,  nodding  at  Diane. 
His  curly  locks  crisped  with  mischief;  his  eyes 
blazed.  He  was  a  little  teasing  animal  now,  beauti 
ful  and  malicious.  "Possibly  Citoyen  Paul  may 
understand  me.  His  head  is  pitiably  thick,  yet 
not  so  thick  as  thine,  M'sieu.  Command  me  when 
you  wish  me  to  return  and  show  you  the  way  back." 

Channing  sat  down  on  a  stone  near  by.  "I'm 
very  stupid  to-night,  as  he  tells  me,"  he  said, 


138  Diane 

compelling  a  smile.  "  I  am  obliged  to  leave  the 
conversation  to  you,  Mademoiselle." 

"You  are  very  tired,  M.  le  Capitaine." 

No;  Channing  was  not  tired;  he  was  dull,  that 
was  all.  He  wished  to  know  something  of  Made 
moiselle,  in  this  long  week  which  had  passed  since 
they  had  met.  She  had  been  well — and  happy? 

Diane  poised  her  chin  on  both  slender  palms. 
Her  blue  eyes  darkened.  "  I  thank  you,  Monsieur. 
I  am  always  well — and  happy.  Perhaps  I  find 
myself  a  little  lonely  this  week;  the  storms  have 
been  cruel!  Never  have  I  beheld  a  tempest  so 
terrible  as  that  of  this  morning.  It  tore  my  apple- 
tree  to  shreds;  the  garden  was  full  of  the  poor, 
broken  stems.  And  I  had  hoped  so  much  from  my 
little  tree !  The  Pere  Cabet  gave  it  to  me  for  my 
very  own  the  day  I  came  to  the  Commune.  Petit 
Clef  says  that  the  rain  killed  the  poor  young  birds 
also,  by  scores.  He  has  grieved  much  at  having 
to  stay  in  the  house;  but  the  fair  weather  comes 
now,  they  say.  He  can  scarcely  wait  till  to-morrow, 
when  he  will  go  to  the  woods,  to  see  how  many  of 
his  soldiers  may  be  wounded/' 

"  The  trees  ?     In  the  Painted  Creek  valley  ? " 

"Yes,  M'sieu." 

"He  is  a  queer  youngster.  And  how  goes  it 
with  the  Commune  ?" 

The  proud  lift  of  her  head  did  not  escape  him. 
"Well,  as  always,  M'sieu.  Some  day  I  hope  to 
convince  you  of  its  merits.  It  is  the  only  right  way 


The  Price  139 

to  live;  yet  I  do  not  blame  you  that  you  do  not 
understand.  It  is  that  your  training  has  made 
you  blind." 

Charming  winced.  He  himself  had  used  a  similar 
phrase  that  day.  Yet  there  was  a  wonderful 
soothing  in  her  gentle  voice.  For  the  sake  of  its 
music,  he  queried  again. 

"But,  Mademoiselle,  there  has  been  a  great  deal 
of  complaint." 

"It  is  the  fault  of  the  people,  not  the  fault  of 
the  System.  They  sigh  for  place  and  distinction; 
actually,  they  do  not  know  why  the  Pere  Cabet 
insists  on  holding  the  Presidency.  They  think  it 
is  that  he  craves  the  honour.  The  honour!  It  is 
but  to  aid  them,  to  keep  them  from  ruining  them 
selves  by  the  election  of  one  of  their  ignorant 
members  to  this  heavy  duty.  And  they  search  for 
grievances;  his  smallest  act  they  represent  as 
injustice ;  he  is  tyrant,  oppressor.  Ah-h !  What 
justice  can  one  expect  from  such  canaille!" 

"Yet  you  feel  that  the  System  is  a  success?" 

"  If  it  should  fail,  M'sieu,  it  will  fail  because  these 
people  are  not  wise  enough  to  live  up  to  so  noble  a 
plan.  The  System  itself  cannot  fail." 

Channing  thought  of  the  map  in  his  pocket. 
He  arose  to  go. 

"  I  could  pray  for  such  faith  as  yours,  Mademoiselle. 
I  cannot  think  with  you;  I  cannot  but  wish  that  I 
might.  I  will  go  now,  You  will  let  me  qojne 
ggain?" 


140  Diane 

He  was  too  beaten  to  stay  and  look  upon  her 
beauty  to-night.  He  only  knew  that  she  was  very 
lovely,  and  that  a  man  who  had  put  aside  his  birth 
right  must  put  aside  his  right  to  dream.  Yet 
neither  vows  nor  denial  may  stifle  Hope. 

Then  came  Citoyen  Paul,  a  square  giant,  dragging 
the  huge  drills.  Petit  Clef  hopped  beside  him, 
balancing  himself  on  the  blacksmith's  mighty  arm. 
He  bespoke  Channing's  attention  with  a  cricket- 
call  as  he  passed. 

"The  Citoyen  Paul  drives  his  ox-cart  to  the 
landing  to  meet  the  steamer.  He  will  take  your 
bit  of  jewelry  here,  and  welcome.  I  go  with  him 
for  the  ride.  He  is  a  man  of  parts,  Citoyen  Paul. 
When  I  have  an  arm  like  this,"  he  laid  his  twig  of 
a  wrist  against  the  huge  muscle,  "  I  shall  not  waste 
my  time  in  trying  to  rule  a  city.  I  shall  be  the 
city." 

"  Please,  Petit  Clef ! "  Diane  put  her  arms  around 
him.  He  slid  from  her  grasp;  his  was  no  yielding 
mood.  One  might  as  well  try  to  caress  a  breeze. 

"Aye,  I  shall  work  with  my  hands  and  not  with 
my  tongue!"  he  cried.  "As  you  told  me,  Made 
moiselle,  I  have  read  much  of  Napoleon;  but  that 
is  as  nothing  compared  with  the  sight  of  a  real 
Napoleon;  is  it  not  so?  The  great  Emperor,  how 
splendid  was  he  !  Think  how  excellent  for  one  man 
to  trample  on  nation  after  nation,  to  use  his  own 
people  who  adored  him  as  balls  to  knock  down  the 
pin-soldiers  of  the  world !  Que  c'6tait  superbe ! 


The  Price  141 

Ah,  how  great  was  his  example !  Here  behold 
among  us  one  little  Napoleon,  made  in  his  image, 
only  so  small — alas,  too  small !  But  he  steps  out 
well:  where  he  may  not  trample  on  nations,  he 
crushes  the  wishes  of  a  family;  while  he  may  not 
set  his  people  in  mortal  combat,  he  commands  his 
friends  that  they  grieve  his  opponents  by  every 
device  that  the  devil  may  teach  them.  Oh,  it  is 
a  noble  metier,  this  business  of  war  and  supremacy ! 
Vive  Napol6on!" 

He  flung  Diane  a  kiss  and  was  off,  clinging  to 
Citoyen  Paul.  His  eldritch  laughter  echoed  back 
to  them. 

"Mademoiselle!" 

Channing's  dull  heart  leaped  again.  She  did  not 
rebel,  poor  child;  she  had  no  words  of  protest. 
Only  her  pale  silence  spoke  her  pain. 

In  the  book  of  All  Truth  it  is  written  that  he  who 
binds  the  wounds  of  another  shall  find  himself,  by 
his  most  generous  deed,  miraculously  healed. 

To  Channing,  as  he  rowed  away,  the  morning  was 
only  a  blotted  page.  Another  day,  he  would  read 
it  bravely;  but,  for  this  little  hour,  let  him  picture 
out  the  characters  which  might  one  day  shine  on 
the  new,  fair  book  now  opened  to  him.  The  change 
in  his  fortunes  should  mean  nothing;  an  active 
young  man  could  always  make  his  way.  The  loss 
of  his  friends  bit  deeper:  perhaps  they  might  not 
condemn  him,  after  all.  They  could  deplore  his 
course  without  despising  him  utterly,  he  exulted; 


142  Diane 

there  was  a  blessed  distinction  between  the  sinner 
and  the  sin.  And  Rose?  Rose  was  wise  as  she 
was  dear.  She  would  not  hold  her  anger  against  her 
friend  of  years.  Besides,  the  two  girls  loved  each 
other,  he  was  sure;  through  the  sympathy  which 
Rose  was  sure  to  give  when  she  learned  his  hopes, 
he  could  win  her  friendship  again.  To  be  sure,  it 
was  all  a  dream  as  yet,  but  he  was  certain  that  when 
she  came  to  know,  dear  sister  that  she  was,  she 
would  forgive  and  understand. 

We,  being  blind,  thank  Heaven  for  lands  and 
possessions,  health  and  pleasures.  A  thousand 
times  more  should  we  give  praises  for  the  power 
to  dream. 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  PATH  OF  THE  UNDERGROUND 

IT  was  a  hard  admission,  but  Friend  Barclay, 
honest  with  himself  as  with  every  other  creature, 
forced  himself  to  confess  its  truth.  For  perhaps  the 
first  time  in  his  long  life  he  must  own  himself  dis 
heartened:  not  by  the  heavy  fine  laid  upon  him 
that  morning,  nor  by  the  threats  of  his  accuser,  the 
slave-hunter;  but  by  the  new,  puzzling  antagonism 
of  his  friends. 

Up  to  this  time  he  had  believed  that  his  home 
town,  though  not  openly  abolitionist,  yet  shared 
his  beliefs  in  secret.  Often  he  had  asked  his  neigh 
bours  for  clothes  and  money  in  order  to  fit  out  some 
destitute  runaway;  and  while  a  few  hung  back,  the 
majority  gave  gladly.  They  would  never  shelter  a 
fugitive.  That  was  not  strange,  considering  the 
penalty  for  such  aid.  As  long  as  some  one  must 
take  the  risk,  his  own  great  house  and  fields  furnished 
hiding-places;  in  times  of  stress,  his  horses  stood 
saddled  and  bridled ;  his  skiffs  lay  in  a  hidden  cove, 
with  oars  ready  muffled.  If  one  must  walk  through 
a  marsh,  he  may  as  well  resign  himself  to  muddy 
boots,  he  would  say;  and  the  daring  of  his  methods 
was  an  actual  gain.  Until  to-day,  although  his 


144  Diane 

doings  had  been  known  among  them  for  years,  the 
townspeople  had  kept  silence — more  because  of 
their  regard  for  the  man  himself  than  for  the  sake 
of  his  beliefs.  But  during  the  last  months  he  had 
felt  a  gathering  opposition,  and  now  the  outbreak 
had  come. 

Its  violence  mystified  him,  yet  the  crisis  was 
simple  enough  to  an  outsider.  The  little  town,  like 
ten  thousand  other  hamlets  in  '56,  was  opposed  in 
spirit  to  the  extension  of  slavery  and  to  the  Fugitive 
Slave  Law;  vastly  more  was  it  opposed  to  the 
thought  of  proving  that  hostility  in  truth.  One 
might  pity  the  slaves  with  a  full  heart;  one  might 
even  convey  to  them  tattered  clothing  and  mis- 
mated  shoes,  by  the  hands  of  a  trusty  messenger; 
but  he  who  showed  his  sympathy  by  open  speech 
and  act  was  a  traitor  as  well  as  a  fool.  There  was 
no  end  to  the  trials  which  his  rashness  might  bring 
them.  Friend  Barclay,  set  apart  in  a  measure 
from  his  neighbours  by  his  creed,  had  not  compre 
hended  their  cowardice;  it  was  revealed  to  him 
to-day  for  the  first  time  in  their  panic  evasion. 

The  audacious  scene  of  the  day  before  had  been 
the  last  tug  at  the  chain  of  their  patience.  The 
slave-hunter  had  rushed  to  the  town,  breathing  fire 
and  vengeance.  He  had  not  been  able  to  settle 
scores  with  the  captain,  but  shrewd  questioning 
had  put  him  on  Friend  Barclay's  path,  and  he  had 
lost  no  time  in  swearing  out  a  warrant  for  his  arrest. 
The  women  were  safely  hidden ;  there  was  no  danger 


The  Path  of  the  Underground  145 

for  them.  So  Friend  Barclay  went  obediently  into 
court,  rather  amused  at  the  promptness  of  the 
avenger.  He  admitted  his  guilt  and  paid  his  fine, 
which  was,  as  usual,  the  lowest  sum  allowed  by 
law.  He  nodded  to  the  judge,  and  wished  the 
trader  a  pleasant  journey  home;  then  he  went  out 
on  the  street,  elated  rather  than  annoyed  by  his 
periodic  penance. 

He  expected  the  joking  pity  of  his  friends ;  instead, 
they  slunk  past  him,  avoiding  his  eye.  Thrifty  as 
ever,  he  had  brought  baskets  of  eggs  and  butter,  to 
trade  in  at  the  village  stores.  He  went  from  shop 
to  shop  with  his  white-topped  baskets;  every  one 
was  over-supplied.  The  knots  of  loungers  melted 
away  as  he  came  near;  it  was  as  if  a  wind  of 
panic  heralded  his  approach.  Friend  Barclay  was 
not  slow  to  see.  His  amusement  changed  to  wonder, 
then  to  wrath.  Finally  he  turned  a  corner  and 
came  upon  the  three  men  who,  of  all  the  villagers, 
were  his  chosen  mates;  the  doctor,  the  judge,  and 
the  postmaster.  Taken  by  surprise,  they  mumbled 
a  reply  to  his  cheerful  hail;  then,  with  one  accord, 
they  shambled  away.  Friend  Barclay  set  down 
his  baskets. 

"Friends!"  The  three  stragglers  wheeled,  in 
voluntarily.  "I'm  not  given  to  asking  favours 
from  any  of  thee;  but  I'd  like  to  know  whether  I'm 
leper  or  murderer  in  thy  sight.  If  this  is  a  joke,  it 
does  not  please  me.  If  it  is  a  truth,  I  demand  its 
cause." 


146  Diane 

The  group  re-formed,  with  red,  downcast  faces. 
Friend  Barclay  was  the  only  man  who  stood  erect: 
his  shoulders  were  a  challenge.  "I've  just  been 
paying  my  fine,  as  thee  knows.  I've  gone  to  jail  for 
this  practice  before,  and  I  mean  to  go  again.  Up 
to  this  time,  thee  has  overlooked  my  shame,  if 
thee  will  so  call  it.  Thee  has  made  a  jest  of  it — old, 
perhaps,  but  useful.  Thee's  afraid  of  agitation; 
thee  doesn't  believe  in  going  to  such  lengths  as 
giving  back  husband  and  wife  to  each  other,  and 
saving  the  child  for  its  mother.  I  have  no  quarrel 
with  thee  for  holding  to  thy  views.  But  I  and 
mine  are  to  be  respected,  also!"  The  doctor 
winced  at  the  gesture.  "I'll  have  thee  know  that 
I'm  neither  a  thief  nor  a  pestilence,  but  a  human 
being,  thy  brother;  and  I  ask  thee  now  to  speak 
truly,  why  I  am  so  treated.  Many  have  avoided 
me  to-day,  where  I  might  judge  that  it  was  because 
I  was  under  the  brand  of  arrest,  did  I  not  know 
that  they  had  shared  my  disgrace,  many  times,  for 
other  faults.  But  I  cannot  believe  mine  eyes  when 
I  meet  with  such  a  taunt  from  thee." 

The  doctor  cleared  his  throat ;  the  judge  and  the 
postmaster  stood  on  one  foot  in  hopeful  anticipation. 
"I — I'm  sure  we  haven't  a  thing  against  you,  Mr. 
Barclay " 

"Then  thee  acts  in  this  way  for  thy  wilful 
pleasure?" 

The  judge  and  the  postmaster  scourged  their 
stuttering  proxy  with  glares  of  rebuke.  True,  there 


The  Path  of  the  Underground  147 

had  been  nothing  for  him  to  say,  but  any  fool  could 
have  worded  nothing  into  more  artful  phrase.  They 
scowled  at  each  other  in  angry  question;  not  one 
was  ready  to  couch  a  lance.  At  last,  with  a  pre 
liminary  hitch  to  his  shirt-sleeves,  the  judge  entered 
the  lists. 

"What  we  mean  is,  we  don't  lay  out  to  kick  on 
anything  you  believe,  Friend  Barclay;  our  quar'l 
is  with  what  ye  do.  We  all  know  how  generous  you 
are,  an'  how  you  help  everybody  that  comes  to  you, 
black  or  white  or  yeller;  nobody  chokes  on  that. 
T'  be  sure,  we  don't  see  how  you  can  bring  'em  into 
your  house  and  take  care  of  them  the  way  you  do; 
but  that's  none  of  our  business." 

"  So  I  think,  also.     I'm  glad  thee  agrees  with  me." 

The  doctor  was  as  one  miraculously  consoled. 
The  postmaster,  a  meek  little  man  in  tufted  jeans, 
glanced  about  for  an  unostentatious  means  of 
escape. 

"Well!"  The  judge  swallowed  hard.  " 'S  I've 
said,  we  haven't  a  thing  against  your  principles — 
no,  nor  your  acts,  neither,  ef  it  wasn't  for  the  way 
they've  been  showin'  up  lately.  We  are  all  proud 
of  you,  Friend  Barclay,  as  a  benevolent  man,  and  as 
an  independent  citizen,"  the  judge  straightened 
up;  the  flow  of  words  had  come  at  last.  "We 
revere  your  precepts,  sir,  and  we  admire  your 
convictions,  though  we  cannot  adopt  them  in  full. 
But — but,  you  see,  Mr.  Barclay,  things  like  that 
there  performance  yesterday  on  the  river — they 


Diane 

won't  do !  Here  you  went  an*  took  those  women 
folks  off  the  steamer  in  broad  daylight,  rowed  'em 
ashore,  hid  'em — well,  of  course,  nobody  knows 
where ;  but  they  ain't  a  child  in  town  but  can  guess. 
Then  you  come  to-day  an'  paid  your  fine,  an* 
you  think  that's  all  said  and  done.  It  is  an'  it 
isn't.  That  hunter  is  goin'  back  to  Louisiana 
peaceable  an'  quietlike,  is  he?  He's  only  lost  a 
five-hundred-dollar  reward  for  himself,  an'  two 
thousand  dollars  in  property  fer  the  men  that  sent 
him.  No,  Friend  Barclay,  I'll  give  ye  fair  warning. 
He's  makin*  up  a  posse  to  hunt  those  niggers  an* 
take  'em,  dead  or  alive;  they're  watchin*  the  river 
roads  now;  an'  what's  more,  he'll  most  likely  seize 
every  free  nigger  in  the  district  an'  take  'em  South 
with  him  fer  trial  as  runaways.  He  has  all  the 
papers  he  needs.  No  use  try  in'  to  get  around  him 
there.  Don't  ye  see  ye're  doin'  more  harm  than 
good  with  these  wide-open  rescues?  Ye're  jest 
drawin'  the  attention  of  them  hunters  to  this  part 
of  the  country.  And  once  they  begin  to  pull  us  up, 
they's  mighty  few  of  us  that  won't  have  to  plead 
guilty  to  aidin'  an'  abettin',  one  way  or  another." 

Friend  Barclay's  face  relaxed.  "Thee  speaks 
truth  there,  John." 

"Well,  then,  you  can  see  for  yourself,  it's  not 
fair  to  the  town  to  bring  all  those  risks  down  on  it. 
That's  why  people  hang  back;  they  don't  want  t' 
be  suspected  of  bein'  thick  with  you.  For  myself, 
I've  threshed  it  over  with  you,  time  an'  again.  I 


The  Path  of  the  Under  ground  149 

don't  believe  in  the  Fugitive  Act.  It  ain't  no 
righteous  law,  an'  the  country  is  bound  to  suffer  for 
it,  sooner  or  later ;  but  a  law's  a  law,  an'  we've  got  to 
swallow  it,  no  matter  how  hard  it  goes  down.  An' 
besides,  you  don't  keep  up  with  the  doin's  away  from 
here,  Barclay;  you  don't  know  what  things  are 
comin'  to.  I  tell  ye,  this  country  has  got  to  sit 
tight  to  the  saddle,  if  she  don't  want  to  git  thrown. 
Here's  the  South,  pourin'  men  an'  ammunition  into 
Kansas;  they'll  be  a  war  there  that'll  beat  anything 
since  '76  before  they  git  through.  It's  only  a 
miracle,  as  that  South  Caroliny  man,  Butler,  told 
the  Senate,  that  the  streets  of  Lawrence  ain't 
been  drenched  in  blood  a'ready.  My  nephew  out 
there — he's  a  Free-State  man — had  a  letter  from 
him  yesterday  that  had  been  five  weeks  on  the 
road,  held  first  at  one  place,  then  another.  He  said 
it  was  same  as  tryin'  to  settle  down  an*  farm  it  on  a 
battle-field.  They's  a  gang  of  Border  Ruffians  had 
come  along  the  week  before  he  wrote,  an'  run  off 
every  horse  an'  cow  he  had,  an*  looted  the  house. 
He  thought  he  got  off  easy,  that  they  didn't  burn 
the  house,  furniture  an'  all.  Has  to  take  his  rifle 
along  when  he  goes  to  plough.  He  says  Kansas  will 
go  for  slavery,  sure;  they  ain't  had  an  election  yet 
that  ain't  been  stuffed  full  of  outside  votes — men 
that's  rode  over  from  Missoury,  an'  even  from 
Georgy,  to  help  fill  it  up  fer  slavery.  I  tell  you, 
the  South  is  out  huntin'  trouble,  an'  if  she  don't 
find  it,  she'll  make  some  special.  What's  the  use 


i5°  Diane 

of  you  wavin'  a  red  flag  up  here?  An*  Congress 
ain't  no  better  than  the  Southerners.  Keeps  a 
makin'  laws  to  suit  the  slavehold " 

"Can't  thee  think  of  anything  more  to  blame  on 
the  South?"  Friend  Barclay  towered  in  blazing 
wrath.  The  judge  hopped  back  instinctively. 

"Well,  they're  the  real  criminals,  them  slave 
holders,"  he  began. 

"'The  real  criminals!'  'It  is  the  fault  of  the 
South  that  slavery  exists;  it  is  doubly  their  fault 
that  slavery  continues.'"  Friend  Barclay's  cloak 
of  humility  had  fallen  from  him,  a  thing  forgot. 
"Thee  stands  here,  a  sane  man,  and  dares  proclaim 
that  lie !  I  tell  thee,  it  is  not  a  question  of  North 
and  South:  it  is  not  a  question  of  Missouri  and 
Massachusetts :  it  is  the  sin  of  the  whole  nation,  and 
as  a  nation  shall  we  make  atonement.  Who  were 
the  first  traders  in  slaves,  can  thee  tell  me  that? 
Thee's  proud  of  thy  New  England  lineage;  thee'll 
be  lucky  if  thee  finds  the  record  blotched  with  the 
name  of  only  one  slave-dealer.  It  was  a  good-paying 
business,  I'll  warrant  thee;  New  England  rum  in 
exchange  for  human  beings,  and  the  ship's  officers 
paid  in  either  slaves  or  strong  drink,  as  they 
chose.  Both  were  valuable  enough;  thee  can  be 
sure  no  captain  ever  lacked  a  crew.  But  slavery 
was  early  abolished  in  the  North?  Truly  enough; 
and  who  abolished  it,  can  thee  tell  me  that?  It 
was  not  done  by  abrupt  repeal  of  the  slave  laws, 
else  it  would  be  made  much  of  in  the  debates  gf 


The  Path  of  the  Underground  151 

to-day.  There  was  never  any  uprising  of  the  men 
of  a  State,  determined  to  wipe  the  stain  of  slavery 
from  their  land.  Given  one  such  uprising  in  our 
smallest  and  weakest  State,  and  its  spark  would 
have  kindled  the  country.  There  would  not  have 
been  left  one  block — no,  nor  one  chain.  What 
force,  then,  drove  slavery  from  the  North?  Can't 
thee  answer,  John?  Or  is  thee  ashamed  to?  I 
don't  wonder  thee  hates  to  soil  thy  mouth  with  the 
word.  Expediency!"  He  ground  his  heel  into 
the  pebbles.  "'Expediency!'  The  devil  himself 
put  that  word  together.  Slave  labour  will  not 
profit  in  the  North;  soil  and  climate  are  suited  to 
manufactures,  not  to  farming.  Slave  labour  does 
profit  in  the  South,  for  the  opposite  reasons.  Hence 
we,  the  North,  sold  our  blacks  into  the  cotton-fields, 
where  they  might  labour,  as  much  our  slaves  as  the 
slaves  of  their  legal  masters;  for  they  toil  that  our 
mills  may  have  cotton  to  weave,  and  that  we  may 
grow  rich  on  what  they  earn.  We  write  a  few 
Resolutions;  we  grieve  that  the  number  of  slaves 
increases,  and  that  their  sufferings  are  so  great ;  but 
we're  careful  where  we  step.  Ah !  It  would  never 
do  to  step  one  inch  beyond  the  bounds  of  our 
compromise,  for  if  the  South,  that  wicked  South, 
should  ever  secede,  what  would  become  of  our 
Union?  And  what  might  not  become  of  our 
mills?" 

"You  ain't   doing  us  justice,    Barclay.    We've 
voted " 


152  Diane 

"Thee's  voted!  And  what  salvation  lies  in  a 
vote,  pray?  It's  thy  belief,  and  thee's  confessing 
it  before  men;  I'll  grant  that.  But  it's  time  thee 
gave  something  else  besides  an  opinion;  it's  time 
thee  lived  up  to  that  opinion,  if  thee's  brave  enough. 
Thy  fathers  before  thee  hated  slavery,  and  voted 
against  it;  slavery  went  on,  regardless,  for  their 
vote  was  a  minority,  and  a  passive  minority  may  as 
well  not  be.  But  if  thee  and  thy  friends  would 
once  make  of  thyselves  an  active  minority,  a  drag 
on  the  wheels  instead  of  a  waiting  victim,  thee'd 
soon  see.  Thee  drops  in  thy  vote,  and  thee  says, 
'Thus  have  I  fulfilled  my  duty  to  my  fellow-men,' 
and  then  thee  rests  in  the  Lord.  Oh,  be  sure  thee 
rests !  And  when  thee  sees  that  thy  vote  was 
unavailing,  thee  curses  the  South,  that  mother  of 
all  iniquity.  It's  high  time  thee  did  thy  cursing 
with  thy  hands  instead  of  thy  mouth !" 

"Strikes  me  you're  a  new  kind  of  Quaker,  Bar 
clay." 

Friend  Barclay  reddened.  "  I  find  myself  unduly 
strong  in  speech,"  he  returned.  "It  is  not  strange 
when  thee  considers  the  cause.  It  goes  against  the 
grain  to  hear  the  North,  mine  own  country,  call 
with  the  voice  of  the  Pharisee  for  judgment  upon  the 
South.  Let  the  North  close  her  mills.  Let  her 
refuse  to  carry  on  business  where  slave  labour  has 
a  part.  Thee'd  soon  see  a  wonderful  falling  off  in 
the  negro  census;  in  the  end,  it  would  cost  the 
North  as  much  as  to  buy  the  slaves  and  free  them, 


The  Path  of  the  Under  ground  153 

which  would  be  the  best -paying  investment  the 
nation  could  make.  But  who  is  he  who  will  put 
his  hand  to  the  plough?  Who  is  he  who  will 
dare  even  to  hint  at  such  a  plan  ?  Yet  it  is  all  the 
fault  of  the  South,  that  Sodom  of  the  nation.  I 
tell  thee,  the  sin  of  the  whole  people  is  upon  the  heads 
of  the  whole  people.  Side  by  side,  hand  to  hand, 
North  and  South  have  mixed  this  cup;  together 
shall  they  drink." 

"  It  ain't  goin'  to  do  any  good  for  a  handful  like 
this  town  to  start  out.  If  the  whole  North  would 
unite,  as  you  say,  there  might  be  some  use  in  it. 
But  as  it  is " 

"So  that  excuses  thee  for  neglecting  thy  duty! 
Thy  brothers  will  not  do  their  part,  hence  thee's 
warranted  in  leaving  thy  own  undone.  Thee's 
afraid  of  failure,  I  suppose ;  but  if  each  one  stood 
out  against  slavery  in  himself,  by  himself,  without 
aid  or  union,  it  would  be  scant  while  till  thee'd  be 
able  to  unite  for  the  sake  of  celebrating  thy  success. 
It  is  not  the  work  of  two  or  of  three ;  it  is  the  work 
of  each  man  alone,  that  counts  in  the  great 
reckoning." 

"Well,  the  law  and  the  public  feeling  are  solid 
against  agitation,  and  there  you  are.  It's  a  stone 
wall." 

"Thy  grandfather  didn't  say  so  when  he  led  his 
troops  at  Bennington." 

"That  was  different.  He  was  fighting  for  his 
own  government,  and  not  against  it.  And  he  had 


154  Diane 

good  enough  reason  for  fighting.  If  he  didn't,  he  was 
likely  to  lose  his  house  and  everything  he  owned." 

"He  fought  for  his  own  government?  So  do  I 
fight  for  mine.  Thee  needn't  think  I'm  any  the 
less  a  patriot  that  I  refuse  to  obey  an  unjust  law. 
No  government  has  the  right  to  make  me  sin  against 
mine  own  conscience.  Thy  grandfather  feared  to 
lose  his  earthly  goods  if  he  did  not  rebel  against 
tyranny.  Very  well.  I  shall  lose  more  than 
earthly  goods  if  I  yield." 

"Well,  I'm  afraid  you're  sure  to  lose  your  earthly 
goods,  as  you  call  'em,  if  you  don't  stop  short, 
Barclay,"  broke  in  the  doctor,  nervously.  "  I'm  a 
friend  *n  an  admirer,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  warn  you, 
whether  you  thank  me  or  not.  The  store-keepers 
say  they'll  have  to  stop  trading  with  you,  not  that 
they  have  anything  against  you  yourself;  but 
they've  got  to  do  it,  to  keep  their  trade  in  other 
quarters.  You  can't  expect  them  to  lose  money 
just  to  favour  your  principles.  That'll  spoil  your 
farm  and  garden  sales,"  he  glanced  at  the  cloth- 
covered  baskets.  "And  I'll  bet  you've  lost  three 
or  four  hundred  dollars  this  spring  already,  what 
with  the  horses  you've  lent  to  runaways,  and  the 
expense  of  keeping  that  boat  ready,  and  everything." 

"Lost  it?" 

"Name  it  as  you  please,  it's  gone.  And  did  you 
ever  get  that  skiff  back  you  lent  that  slave  crew 
that  was  going  up  river  just  after  the  ice  broke  ? " 

"No.     They   would   have    sent   it,    but    it    was 


The  Path  of  the  Underground  155 

seized  just  after  they  made  escape.  I  could  not 
— well,  lay  claim  to  it." 

"  Well,  you  see.  You're  out  a  boat  here,  a  horse 
there — a  man  can't  stand  such  a  drain  long.  And 
how  are  you  going  to  help  your  runaway  friends  if 
you  haven't  nothing  left?" 

"As  long  as  there  is  corn  in  my  field  and  fire  on 
my  hearth  they  shall  not  be  turned  away,"  flashed 
Friend  Barclay.  Then,  with  a  sudden  shift  to 
grim  fun,  "And  if  they  like  the  fashion  of  my 
skiffs,  I'll  be  happy  to  keep  on  building  them,  that 
they  may  steal!" 

He  would  have  said  more,  had  he  not  noticed  that 
his  companions  were  huddling  together,  like  fowls 
before  a  storm.  He  glanced  up  the  street ;  his  tense 
face  broke  up  into  a  sea  of  genial  wrinkles.  "Our 
friend  the  slave-hunter  appears  to  search  for  some 
one,"  he  chuckled.  "I  would  not  cause  thee 
embarrassment,  my  friends,  and  I  judge  that  thee 
will  not  care  to  meet  him.  Good-day  to  thee." 

He  picked  up  the  big  baskets,  and  trudged 
slowly  down  the  street,  towards  his  opponent. 
The  three  men  watched  him;  they  dreaded  an 
encounter,  yet  they  awaited  it  with  a  certain 
fearful  joy.  If  it  should  be  a  matter  of  words, 
Friend  Barclay  was  ready  for  any  pass;  but  if  it 
should  come  to  blows,  now 

"  And  he's  ugly  drunk,  the  beast ! "  said  the  doctor, 
in  a  half -whisper.  "He's  stopping  Barclay  now. 
Wonder  what  he  said," 


1 56  Diane 

"I  haven't  time  to  talk  with  thee,  friend," 
Barclay's  voice  rang  out  high  and  distinct  in  answer 
to  the  muttered  demand.  The  hunter  planted 
his  shambling  length  directly  in  front  of  the  old 
man  and  looked  him  over  from  his  broad  brim  to 
his  broad  shoes.  While  the  three  could  not  hear 
his  words,  his  posture  was  in  itself  an  insult. 

"I'd  like  to  know  why  the  sheriff  doesn't  chain 
him  up  like  one  of  his  own  niggers,"  quavered  the 
doctor.  "I  do  believe  he — he's  pulling  out  his 
revolver,  by  George !  And  Barclay  hasn't  a  pen 
knife  about  him,  of  course.  What  shall  we  do?" 

"We  cannot  legally  interfere,"  chattered  the 
judge.  Pale  but  resolute,  he  pulled  out  his  snuff 
box  and  took  a  mighty  blast.  "  Y-you'll  all  b-bear 
witness  that  Barclay  didn't  strike  f-f -first " 

Bang!  The  first  shot  whizzed  past  Barclay's 
right  ear;  the  second  scraped  his  shoulder;  the 
third  nipped  the  brim  of  his  straw  hat.  The 
old  man  stood  motionless  through  the  volley, 
holding  his  baskets  in  careful  grip.  One  would 
have  said  he  was  waiting  on  the  pleasure  of  a 
slow  customer. 

"  Now,  d'ye  see  ! "  roared  the  bully.  "  I  kin  shoot 
straight,  can't  I?  An'  I  ain't  so  drunk  but  I've 
got  m'  pluck  'long,  ain't  I  ?  Tell  me  wheresh  them 
niggers  gone,  before  I  gi'  you  rest  of  these  six 
shot'.  Wheresh  they  gone?  Wheresh "  In 
furiated  at  the  other's  calm,  he  snatched  the 
broad-brimmed  hat  from  the  gray  head  and 


The  Path  of  the  Underground  157 

stamped  upon  it.  "Goin'  stamp  on  you  you'se'f, 
like  that,  ef  you  don'  speak !  An'  shoot  you  fuller 
holes  'n " 

The  judge  and  the  doctor  reeled  against  the  wall. 
A  small  figure  in  tufted  blue  jeans  shot  down  the 
street  like  a  blue  meteor.  There  sounded  the  thud 
of  impact;  the  bully  went  down  like  a  pasteboard 
doll.  There  rose  a  mighty  bellowing,  then  shrieks 
and  gurgles  of  appeal.  The  judge  and  the  doctor 
clutched  at  each  other  with  starting  eyes. 

"Samuel,  I'm  afraid  thee  may  get  hurt,"  mur 
mured  Friend  Barclay. 

The  little  postmaster  stood  up  and  brushed  the 
dust  from  his  clothes.  Ordinarily,  he  bore  the 
aspect  of  a  bald  and  dejected  chipmunk;  to-day, 
he  towered,  blood-stained,  magnificent. 

"G-get  up, ye !"  he  shouted,  red  with  rage. 

The  judge's  jaw  sank  into  his  black  stock ;  not  in  the 
memory  of  man  had  Samuel  sworn.  "G-get  up, 
I  say!"  He  kicked  the  collapsed  shape  viciously. 
"Now,  pick  up  that  hat." 

Goliath  picked  up  the  hat. 

"Dust  it  off.  Not  a  word  out  of  you,  or  I'll 
thrash  the  rest  of  your  hide  off.  Cleaner.  That'll 
do.  Now  beg  his  pardon." 

"I'll  be " 

"Most  likely  you  will."  The  little  postmaster 
had  picked  up  the  revolver.  He  flourished  it  with 
the  abandon  of  appalling  ignorance.  Even  Friend 
Barclay  blinked.  "  Pull  in  yer  horns  and  apologise, 


1 58  Diane 

I  say.  And  be  quick  about  it.  I  won't  stand  here 
all  afternoon." 

Gasping  and  furious,  the  hunter  blurted  out  the 
words.  Then  he  turned  and  pitched  away  heavily. 
The  judge  and  the  doctor  came  near,  with  humble 
step.  Friend  Barclay's  glance  made  them  shrivel 
in  their  shoes. 

"I'm  much  obliged  to  thee,  Samuel,"  he  said. 
"Thee's  sure  thee  isn't  hurt?  I'm  thankful  for 
that." 

"  How  did  you  dare  do  it  ?"  burst  out  the  doctor. 
"It  was  splendid  of  you,  Riggs,  but  how — I  don't 
see " 

Friend  Barclay  turned  upon  him.  "Try  it  some 
time,  William.  Thee'd  find  it  doesn't  ruin  a  man 
to  do  a  brave  thing.  Good-day  once  more,  friends." 

As  he  drove  home  through  the  dusk,  Friend 
Barclay  brought  to  mind  each  incident  of  the  day. 
It  was  not  a  pleasant  retrospect;  even  his  sane, 
cheerful  nature  gave  way  to  the  depression  born 
of  long  misunderstanding.  He  was  beyond  the 
point  where  he  could  smile  at  the  picture  of  Samuel 
and  the  hunter.  It  was  only  an  added  proof  of  the 
attitude  of  his  friends.  They  would  dare  much  for 
him,  as  a  fellow-man:  they  would  not  risk  a 
penny  for  the  principles  which  he  held  dearer  than 
life.  With  a  touch  of  the  intolerance  that  crops 
out  in  every  ardent  reformer,  Friend  Barclay  was 
peculiarly  rasped  by  their  awe-struck  respect  for 


The  Path  of  the  Underground  159 

property  rights.  He  was  no  ascetic,  but  the  things 
of  the  flesh  had  come  to  mean  so  little  to  him  that 
his  patience  gave  way  when  he  heard  them  exalted. 
Surely  wealth  was  a  reproach  to  its  possessor  when 
gained  under  laws  evil  as  these. 

Indeed,  it  was  to  this  first  root,  the  love  of  property, 
that  the  whole  wrong  might  be  traced.  It  was 
the  word  of  Scripture,  verified  from  generation  unto 
generation.  And  could  this  root  be  destroyed 
without  the  destruction  of  the  whole  social  fabric? 
Man  after  man  had  toiled  through  his  little  hour  to 
solve  the  riddle;  man  after  man  had  died  with  the 
word  unspoken.  They  struck  at  property  itself,  at 
individual  ownership ;  they  gashed  the  stalk,  not  the 
root.  Their  piteous  failures  rose  like  ghosts  before 
his  tired  eyes.  Not  a  mile  away,  on  the  hill -crest, 
stood  the  latest  of  them  all;  its  defeat  the  more 
forlorn  because  of  its  high  aim. 

The  thought  of  the  Commune  brought  to  mind 
Diane  as  he  had  seen  her  last,  her  arms  full  of 
flowers,  Channing  close  at  her  side.  The  mighty 
issues  of  life  make  place  in  our  hearts  for  the  most 
trivial  risk,  if  it  threatens  one  beloved.  So  Friend 
Barclay's  thought  sped  to  this  motherless  child, 
alone  and  defenceless  in  her  angel  innocence.  He 
knew  the  dangers  which  Cabet,  infatuated  with  his 
schemes,  could  never  foresee.  A  few  more  harsh 
demands,  a  few  more  rude  reproofs  from  Cabet — wise 
fool,  who  mistook  insolence  for  authority — and  the 
Commune  would  rise  against  him,  a  seething  mob, 


160  Diane 

wild  for  vengeance.  It  would  be  no  check  on  their 
fury  to  remember  that  most  of  their  grievances 
were  of  their  own  making,  that  they  had  pledged 
themselves  to  the  laws  whose  enforcement  now 
proved  such  a  trial.  Between  the  fate  of  the 
tyrant  and  the  fate  of  the  blind  leader  of  the 
blind  there  is  little  to  choose.  And  in  that  day, 
what  of  Diane  ? 

The  gleam  of  his  home  lights  through  the  trees 
calmed  the  whirl  of  his  thought.  A  night  of  perilous 
work  lay  before  him;  he  must  bend  all  his  powers 
to  this  one  task.  His  neighbours  would  not  betray 
him.  While  they  might  be  cowardly,  they  were 
human.  But  the  party  of  slaves  which  he  was  to 
start  northward  that  night  was  so  large,  and  the 
means  of  travel  so  hazardous,  that  he  had  grave 
reason  for  anxiety.  The  doctor's  warnings  rang 
in  his  ears.  He  had  never  yet  failed,  but  if  the 
river  roads  were  under  watch,  and  if  the  hunter 
should  succeed  in  gathering  a  posse  from  the  town 
scum,  he  could  hardly  hope  to  make  his  way 
through. 

The  door  opened  quietly;  a  woman 's  figure  stood 
out    dark    against    the    rosy    light.     "It's    thee, 
Stephen?" 

"It  is  I,  Margaret."  Friend  Barclay's  voice 
rang  loudly  cheerful.  He  drove  into  the  carriage- 
shed,  with  a  halloo  to  his  hired  man ;  then  he  tramped 
noisily  back  to  the  door,  whistling  his  pet  tune,  the 
robin  call.  His  wife  stood  waiting  for  him  in  the 


The  Path  of  the  Underground  161 

broad  light.  There  are  times  when  an  artless 
publicity  is  a  very  present  help. 

They  greeted  each  other  with  the  swift,  speaking 
glance  of  husband  and  wife,  one  in  thought. 

"Thee's  tired  and  hungry."  Margaret  Barclay 
took  up  the  lamp  and  led  the  way  into  the  kitchen. 
A  table  set  with  a  dainty  supper  stood  in  the  middle 
of  the  room;  Margaret  put  down  the  lamp  with  a 
whisper,  "I  laid  thy  meal  here  because  I  think  it 
will  hearten  them  to  see  thee  eat,  as  though  thee 
wasn't  afraid.  They  are  in  great  alarm." 

Friend  Barclay  nodded.  "Glad  to  find  thee 
here,  friends."  His  voice  rang  echoing  through 
the  dusky  room,  still  with  the  silence  of  supreme 
fear.  "Thee'll  have  to  wait  a  while  on  a  hungry 
man.  After  supper,  we'll  see  what  we  can  do." 

He  washed  his  hands  deliberately  at  the  sink;  he 
stopped  to  punch  the  hearth-fire  into  brighter 
flame ;  he  sat  down  and  ate  with  the  leisurely  content 
which  speaks  a  tired  body  and  a  mind  at  ease. 

Around  him  the  great  kitchen  gloomed  in  shadow. 
The  candles  on  the  mantel  and  the  little  lamp  at 
his  elbow  were  mere  flickering  dots  in  the  huge 
dusky  room,  with  its  cavernous  doorways,  its  deep 
window-seats,  its  innumerable  closets,  whose  doors, 
half -open,  were  as  lids  to  chests  of  darkness.  There 
were  other  Shadows  in  that  room,  lurking  in  dim 
corners,  huddled  behind  the  cumbrous  furniture. 
Their  dark  faces,  now  hidden,  now  peering  forth 
in  the  restlessness  of  dread,  were  abject  masks  of 


1 62  Diane 

fear;  their  eyes  rolled  madly;  now  and  then 
one  spoke  to  another  in  mumbling  gasps.  But  one 
of  their  number  kept  silence;  a  girl,  who  lay  on  a 
low  settee  before  the  fire. 

She  had  lain  there  motionless  since  noon.  The 
clatter  of  feet  and  the  murmur  of  heavy  voices 
had  not  aroused  her.  Her  *yelids  had  not  quivered 
when  Friend  Barclay's  voice  of  greeting  sounded 
through  the  room.  Even  in  that  hushed  air  of 
terror,  that  silence  which  wakens  the  sleeper  more 
swiftly  than  a  thunderbolt,  she  slept  on.  Her 
hands  lay  palms  outward  lax  as  the  hands  of 
the  dying;  her  black  hair  breamed  in  a  glittering 
wave  along  the  floor.  Day  after  day  she  had  lain 
in  brush-screened  hollows,  \»r  baby  fretting  at  her 
dry  breast.  Night  after  night  she  had  crawled 
through  marsh  and  brake,  her  child  in  her  arms. 
Her  body  was  sick  with  hunger;  her  soul  was  sick 
with  dread.  The  others  flee*  from  pain  and  cold 
and  bondage;  freedom,  for  them,  meant  comfort 
and  liberty.  She  fled  from  warmth  and  ease  and 
every  imperial  right  that  her  beauty  might  demand ; 
for  her,  freedom  meant  toil  and  poverty — and 
honour. 

To-day,  at  last,  she  knew  herself  safe.  She  had 
laid  her  boy  to  sleep ;  then,  without  waiting  for  food 
or  drink,  she  had  fallen  upon  the  cot,  in  the  utter 
surrender  of  exhaustion.  £ut  for  the  pulses  in  her 
white  throat,  she  might  have  been  a  shape  of  ivory, 
fit  for  Athena's  shrine,  laid  by  the  cunning  carver 


The  Path  of  the  Underground  163 

before  the  altar  flames,  that  their  glow  might  flush 
it  with  the  rose  of  life. 

Friend  Barclay  felt  her  cold  wrist.  The  blood 
beat  faint  and  slow;  for  her  sleep  was  very  near  to 
death.  He  glanced  at  her  palms.  The  left  was 
softly  pink,  without  a  line  or  a  bruise ;  on  that  arm, 
supported  by  that  hand,  she  had  carried  the  child. 
The  right  palm  was  cut  and  torn ;  the  delicate  nails 
were  broken;  the  wrist  was  swollen  and  dark. 
With  that  hand,  she  had  pushed  back  branch  and 
briar  that  they  might  not  strike  the  child. 

"  How  old  ? "  he  whispered  to  Margaret. 

"Nineteen." 

Friend  Barclay  turned  to  the  middle  of  the 
room.  "The  shutters  are  down,  friends,"  he  whis 
pered.  "Come  here  to  me,  that  I  may  tell  our 
plans." 

They  shuffled  up  to  him  with  the  sidewise  hover 
of  timorous  animals;  their  eyes  rolled  wildly. 
"Thee  must  remember  that,  while  our  chances  are 
fair,  we  must  be  cautious,"  he  went  on,  under  his 
breath.  "We  will  walk  north,  along  the  willows 
near  the  river  road,  till  we  are  opposite  Fort  Madison ; 
a  steamer  will  meet  us  there,  and  thee's  all  to  go 
aboard  as  cabin  passengers.  Thee  must  remember, 
now,  three  raps  and  a  whistle  like  this,"  he  illustrated 
softly ;  "  that  is  the  signal  for  thee  to  unlock  the  state 
room  doors.  Mind  thee  doesn't  open  them  for 
any  other  call.  The  friends  who  wfll  come  aboard 
for  thee  will  see  to  thy  needs  and  send  thee  on  to  the 


1 64  Diane 

North  as  soon  as  possible.  The  women  will  go  in 
the  wagon,  by  the  prairie  road;  Friend  Rufus  will 
attend  to  them.  I'll  walk  with  thee.  Remember, 
thee's  on  no  account  to  fight;  swim  for  the  Iowa 
shore  or  break  for  the  woods,  if  we're  attacked. 
Make  ready,  now.  See,  there's  eight  of  thee  men, 
and  three  women,  besides  this  girl  here " 

"Stephen,  we  have  forgotten  one  thing,"  spoke 
his  wife.  "Who  has  warned  Manderson's  Persis?" 

" Manderson's  Persis?  She  has  her  free  papers. 
She  is  in  no  danger." 

"  'Scuse  me,  Mas'r."  A  gray-headed  negro  pushed 
to  the  front.  "'Scuse  me,  please,  Mas'r,  but 
won't  you  le'  me  go  tell  her?  They's  after  us  free 
niggers,  too.  Me  an*  Cindy " 

"  What !  I  thought  thee  and  Cindy  were  here 
just  to  help  Margaret  feed  and  care  for  these  others. 
Thee  doesn't  mean  to  say  thee's  running  away, 
too  ?  When  thee's  lived  here  six  years,  a  free  man  ? " 

"'Scuse  me,  Mas'r."  The  old  man  shrank  and 
cowered;  his  knotted  hands  locked  and  twisted 
as  if  an  agony  of  speech  plucked  for  expression 
at  the  dumb  finger-tips.  His  body  stooped,  the 
bondsman ;  but  his  prayer  must  be  spoken.  "  Please, 
Mas'r,  she's  done  been  that  good  to  us !  We's  got 
ter  go,  we  dasn't  stay.  They's  been  warnin's 
pinned  to  our  door  three  nights  runnin'.  But 
we's  got  ter  save  her,  somehow.  Please,  Mas'r " 

Friend  Barclay  looked  at  him  miserably.  So 
with  the  first  alarm,  the  servile  habit  would  return ; 


The  Path  of  the  Underground  165 

witness  the  bent  body,  the  piteous  speech.  Was 
it  well  to  give  freedom  into  these  clumsy,  ignorant 
hands,  which  would  yield  their  birthright  to  the 
first  vile  hand  that  snatched  at  it  ?  His  eye  fell  on 
the  sleeping  girl.  Aye,  it  was  well. 

"I'll  go  for  Persis  myself,"  he  said  shortly. 
"Margaret  will  start  thee  all  on  thy  way.  We'll 
meet  thee  at  Red  Forks  most  likely,  but  do  not  wait 
if  we're  not  there  when  thee  reaches  the  creek." 

He  threw  on  his  coat  and  hurried  away,  first 
through  a  long  cornfield,  then  up  the  hillside  woods. 
The  young  moon  would  set  in  an  hour  or  so;  after 
that,  their  dangers  would  be  lessened.  There  was 
a  chance,  too,  that  the  wind  might  rise  when  the 
moon  went  down.  Now  the  pale  light  barred  the 
forest  with  silver,  and  studded  the  still  black 
water  with  broad  inlay  of  pearl.  The  smallest 
moving  object  on  that  glassy  surface  would  be  an 
easy  target ;  the  crash  of  snapping  twigs  would  re 
echo  in  this  breathless  hush. 


CHAPTER  X 
MADAME 

MANDERSON'S  Persis  lived  on  the  first  hill  south 
of  the  Commune,  where  the  river  widens  into  a 
dimpling  curve,  like  the  hollow  of  a  bended  arm. 
Clasped  by  its  flow  lie  the  Iowa  bluffs,  cloaked  in 
walnut  and  maple;  on  the  Illinois  side,  the  hills 
rise  more  gradually,  a  stately  amphitheatre.  On 
the  topmost  slope  stood  her  cottage,  a  tiny  white 
box,  perched  high  on  wooden  supports,  painted 
white,  and  trimmed  with  wondrous  scrolls  of  car 
pentry.  With  its  bright  blue  blinds  and  its  bright 
yellow  roof,  one  was  irresistibly  reminded  of  a 
stout  little  girl,  in  much  frilled  pantalets  and  smooth- 
cropped  flaxen  head.  The  river  flowed  two  hundred 
feet  below;  but  fifty  years  of  Persis'  life  had  been 
spent  in  a  marshy  quarter  on  St.  Catherine's,  off 
the  Carolina  coast;  her  own  castle,  built  by  the 
labour  of  her  hands,  should  stand  high  above  all 
danger  of  overflow. 

For  seventy  years,  the  Manderson  clan  'had 
ruled  St.  Catherine's,  a  lordly  family.  Their  cotton- 
fields  spread  sheets  of  snow  from  the  green  salt- 
marshes  to  the  green  ocean  tossing  on  the  east; 
their  marble  castle,  throned  on  high  terraces, 

166 


Madame  167 

flashed  greeting  to  the  passing  ships  by  day;  its 
blazing  windows  guided  far  by  night.  Seven 
hundred  slaves  tilled  the  b^oad  fields ;  some  hundred 
more  served  in  the  great  house  and  manned  the 
barges  in  which  Madame  and  her  guests  rode  to  the 
mainland  or  up  and  down  the  inner  channel,  from 
plantation  to  plantation,  from  ball  to  bridal.  It 
was  a  heavenly  place,  that  island;  not  a  slave  but 
loved  its  beauty,  and  exulted  in  the  splendour  of 
the  family  that  he  served.  They  were  spoilt 
children,  those  slaves,  to  the  Mainland  planters 
declared.  Madame  Manderson  frowned  on  the 
whipping-post;  Colonel  Manderson  proclaimed  holi 
day  twenty  times  a  year,  and  brought  some  trifling 
gift  to  every  soul  on  the  plantation  when  he  returned 
from  selling  his  cotton  in  New  York  each  fall. 
Such  rank  indulgence  savoured  of  disaffection,  so 
protested  his  conservative  friends.  It  could  portend 
but  one  issue.  The  issue  ^ame. 

Persis  unrolled  her  ribboned  bundle  one  Christmas 
morning,  to  find  a  crisp  f o;  d  of  paper  wrapped  in  the 
gay  turban  and  knit  snawl  which  her  soul  had 
coveted.  Wondering,  she  spelled  the  printed  page 
aloud.  It  was  a  hard  task;  but  its  dim  import 
sent  the  blood  in  leaps  to  her  old  heart.  She  ran 
to  her  mistress,  trembling.  Madame  Manderson, 
a  frail  blossom  of  a  woman,  stood  up  and  motioned 
her  away. 

"  I  can't  talk  about  it,  Persis.  Yes,  I  know  youVe 
been  my  nurse,  you've  been  all  but  a  mother " 


1 68  -  Diane 

she  turned  to  the  window  and  twisted  the  cords  in 
icy  fingers.  "We  have  talked  it  over  with  friends 
in  the  North;  it  is  the  only  thing  to  do.  No,  you 
shall  not  stay  here.  It  is  not  best." 

Persis'  wail  rose  above  her  colourless  voice. 
"  But  I  don'  want  ter  be  free !  I  ain'  goin'  ter  be 
free!  Oh,  my  little  missis!  My  little  missis!" 

"You  are  going  North,  two  hundred  of  you,  to 
morrow.  When  the  schooner  reaches  New  York, 
you  will  meet  friends,  who  will  start  you  on  your 
way  to  the  farms  we  have  bought  for  you.  You're 
each  one  to  have  a  little  piece  of  land ;  we  can  spare 
very  little  money  this  year,  but  you  will  be  given 
enough  for  a  start.  Another  year  we  will  free 
some  of  the  younger  servants;  you  older  ones  are 
to  go  first.  If  we  had  a  son  to  live  here  after  us, 
to  care  for  you  children " 

"  Oh,  jes'  let  me  stay  here  with  you  !  You  is  goin' 
live  longer  nor  me,  Miss  Felicie.  An'  ef  you  does 
die  fust,  I  ain'  goin'  keer  what  dey  does  ter  me 
then!  Dey  kin  sell  me  down  Souf,  dey  kin " 

"  And  with  things  as  they  are  now,  we  cannot  say 
what  might  happen  to  the  Colonel  or  to  me  at  any 
time.  No,  I'm  not  saying  good-bye  forever,  Persis. 
I'll  be  North  some  day,  perhaps,  and  see  you. 
And  if  anything  goes  wrong  with  me — I  know  you'll 
come." 

The  schooner  sailed  away  to  the  North  next 
morning.  A  crowd  of  dark  wistful  faces  watched 
it  till  it  lay,  a  moveless  dot,  against  the  rim  of  the  sky. 


Madame  169 

Another  line  of  faces,  stained  and  tear-wet,  gazed 
southward  till  the  star-white  lines  of  the  Great 
House  had  set  below  the  whiter  mist  of  the  sea, 

A  year  from  that  day,  the  schooner  carried  a 
happier  crew.  This  second  freed  army  was  made 
up  of  younger  men  and  women,  whose  attachment 
to  the  Island  was  not  so  deep  as  was  that  of  the 
older  slaves.  Then  they  had  the  enthusiasm  of 
numbers.  Colonel  Manderson  found  it  possible  to 
dispense  with  half  the  house-servants,  besides  the 
quota  of  field-labourers.  Somehow  their  duties  were 
fewer.  There  were  no  more  balls  at  the  Great 
House;  it  was  an  event  when  Madame  Manderson 
ordered  out  the  barges.  Husband  and  wife  lived 
their  stately  days  as  before.  The  Colonel's  head  was 
a  little  whiter ;  Madame's  hand  rested  a  shade  more 
heavily  upon  his  arm.  Another  year,  and  they 
could  free  the  last  slave;  then  they  would  sell  the 
plantations  and  go  North,  where  they  might  live,  if 
not  in  luxury,  at  least  in  peace.  They  dared  not 
speak  with  each  other  of  their  uppermost  thought : 
the  horror  of  separation  from  the  home  in  which 
their  very  being  was  rooted.  But  even  this  wrench 
could  not  be  so  cruel  as  this,  their  present  life — the 
life  of  the  social  outcast,  the  leper.  Nothing 
better  could  be  expected  of  Page  Manderson,  so 
his  neighbours  agreed.  A  man  whose  grandfather 
had  been  hissed  from  the  Senate  for  his  defiant 
invective  against  slave  importation  was  fore- 


1 70  Diane 

ordained  a  traitor.  But  from  Felicia  Benedict, 
child  of  the  South,  by  descent  through  five  genera 
tions,  such  apostasy  outran  belief.  They  drew  their 
flowing  gowns  away  from  her  contaminating  touch 
as  she  paced  the  narrow  aisle  to  her  high-backed  pew 
in  Saint  Stephen's;  Colonel  Manderson  saw  and 
knew  and  must  endure.  The  wife  felt  his  every 
stab  of  shame  and  self-reproach  for  her,  but  the 
terrible  pity  of  it  Kept  her  lips  sealed. 

When  April  flushed  the  marshes  with  anemone, 
Colonel  Manderson  rowed  away  through  the  Romilly 
Marshes  to  Savannah.  He  would  be  back  in  three 
days,  he  said.  Madame  followed  him  to  the  pier, 
brave  in  her  crimson  boat -cloak,  to  wave  him  a 
gay  good-bye.  Spring  called  high  in  her  heart. 
Just  five  months  more,  and  then  they,  like  their 
slaves,  should  be  free ! 

She  sang  softly  to  herself,  those  three  days 
alone,  her  sweet  lips  rosy,  her  eyes  alight  with 
dream.  The  song  still  thrilled  on  her  lips  when 
she  went  to  meet  the  returning  barge.  The 
cok>ur  had  not  faded  from  her  cheek  when  she 
knelt  on  the  pier  and  lifted  her  dying  husband, 
that  his  life  might  go  out  against  the  heart  that 
died  with  him. 

They  did  not  tell  her  all.  Perhaps  she  would 
not  hear.  Sometimes  one  cannot  say  how  those 
tragedies  begin.  A  glance,  a  sneering  word;  the 
harsh  retort  of  a  generous  nature  embittered  by  the 
persecution  of  its  own  blood;  a  blow — there  have 


Madame  171 

been  many  such  cases.  No,  she  did  not  need  to 
hear. 

But  one  other  heard ;  who  knows  by  what  strange 
messenger?  She  was  shrewd,  this  Persis,  nurse- 
mother  of  a  generation.  She  must  reach  her 
mistress,  but  even  with  her  free  papers,  she  dared 
not  travel  openly  through  the  South.  Too  many 
of  her  race  had  slipped  the  leash  of  bondage  through 
forged  papers  and  persuasive  speech;  for  the  sake 
of  her  mistress,  more  than  for  her  own  safe'ty,  she 
would  run  no  such  risk.  So  it  was  eight  weeks 
before  she  reached  St.  Catherine's.  She  had  ridden 
in  ox-carts,  she  had  slept  in  the  brush;  she  had 
walked  scores  of  miles  through  marsh  and  thicket. 
Her  old  bones  ached;  she  was  ragged  and  thin  and 
gray;  but  these  things  counted  as  nothing,  when 
she  pushed  her  way  up  the  stairs  of  the  Great 
House,  past  the  wide-eyed  servants,  and  heard 
her  mistress'  low  cry : 

"I've  waited  for  you,  Persis!  I  knew  you'd 
come!" 

The  last  slave  took  his  papers  and  went  away. 
The  house  and  all  its  furnishings  were  sold  for  a 
trifle:  what  self-respecting  man  would  own  even 
the  chairs  and  tables  of  a  renegade?  Madame 
Manderson  packed  away  the  Colonel's  portrait,  her 
gowns  and  jewels,  and  the  few  pieces  of  silver 
which  had  escaped  the  sale.  She  was  the  last  of  her 
race.  Her  husband's  people  were  long  alienated  by 
his  change  of  belief;  not  one  among  them  that 


172  Diane 

did  not  pity  her,  perhaps ;  yet  not  one  dared  to  offer 
her  a  home.  She  left  her  summer  island  for  the 
locked  winters  of  the  North.  She  went  from  the 
palace  which  she  had  entered  as  a  bride  to  live  in 
the  cottage  built  for  her  by  her  slave. 

She  was  not  penniless ;  the  tiny  house  knew  many 
comforts.  She  was  not  friendless ;  all  the  Commune 
loved  this  strange  Americaine,  who  spoke  their 
French  as  sweetly  as  her  own  tongue,  and  brought 
them  mint  and  roses  from  her  tiny  garden.  She  was 
not  unhappy ;  she  stood  too  far  within  the  Temple. 
The  life  without  was  a  thing  of  years  long  past. 
The  only  Life  she  knew  lay  close ;  it  was  just  beyond 
the  veil. 


CHAPTER  XI 
A  BROTHERHOOD  OF  IMPULSE 

THE  cottage  door  opened  promptly  at  Friend 
Barclay's  knock.  Persis  stood  in  the  doorway; 
one  might  better  say  that  she  filled  the  doorway. 
Her  eyes  snapped  beneath  the  demurely  folded 
turban.  "It's  you,  Fren'  Barclay?  Clar  to  good 
ness,  honey,  I  b'leeve  you's  losted !  How's  you 
git  here?" 

"Let  me  in,  Persis.     I  want  to  talk  with  thee." 

She  stepped  aside,  apprehensively.  "Dey  ain't 
nothin'  wrong?  Dey  ain'  cotched  'um?" 

"No.     Where  is  thy  mistress ? " 

"In  de  settin'-room.  Ain'  you  goin'  tell  me 
what's  the  matter?" 

"I  want  thee  to  go  North  to-night,  Persis.  A 
raid  is  afoot  that  may  mean  trouble  for  thee.  We 
are  sending  all  the  negroes,  from  Rufus'  house  as 
well  as  mine." 

Persis  stared.  Then  she  set  down  the  candle 
deliberately,  and  leaned  against  the  wall.  Her 
silent  laughter  jarred  the  pictures  above  her  head. 

"It's  no  laughing  matter,  Persis."  A  very  little 
banter  may  pique  the  most  exalted  spirit.  "Sum 
mon  thy  mistress.  We  have  no  time  to  spare." 


i;4  Diane 

"Persis!"  called  Madame  Manderson  from  the 
inner  room.  Persis  bent  her  features  into  mournful 
lines. 

"Yes,  Miss  Felicie,  honey.'* 

"  Did  any  one  ask  for  me  ? " 

"Why,  Miss  Felicie/'  she  stopped  short.  Her 
laughter  gurgled  out  irresistibly,  like  wine  from  a 
deep-throated  jar.  "  'Scuse  me,  Miss  Felicie,  I 
jes'  kain'  help  it.  Dey's  a  gemman  here,  named 
Fren'  Barclay,  an'  he  'lows  de  paddy-rollers,  dey's 
after  me.  Spec'  he's  losted,  an*  thinks  he's  tromped 
clear  down  to  Kentuck.  He " 

"  Why,  Persis  ! "  Madame  Manderson  came  swift 
ly  from  her  room.  "What  nonsense — oh,  it  is 
really  you,  Friend  Barclay!" 

Friend  Barclay  had  no  time  for  the  amenities. 
"Put  on  thy  cloak  and  come,  Persis.  We  must 
reach  Red  Forks  in  less  than  an  hour." 

Persis  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "I  ain'  goin'  one 
step,  Mas'r.  Thank  you  jes'  the  same.  I's  got  my 
free  papers,  an'  ef  they  won't  do,  I  'low  I  kin' 
jes  frail  any  fool  nigger-hunter  what  comes  my 
way.  Yes,  seh,  I  kin !  An'  'sides,  who's  goin' 
take  care  of  Miss  Felicie  ef  I  ain'  here  ? " 

"Get  your  cloak  and  your  heavy  shoes,  Persis." 

Persis  started  at  her  mistress'  voice.  It  was 
years  since  she  had  heard  that  tone.  "I  kain'  go, 
Miss  Felicie,"  she  implored.  "What  you  goin'  do 
'thout  me?  Dey  ain'  nobody  what  kin  make  yo' 
coffee  like  me;  dey  ain'  nobody  what  kin  sleep  at 


A  Brotherhood  of  Impulse  175 

door  an'  wake  the  minute  you  begin  to  call  'um. 
You  ain'  goin'  send  me  away,  please,  Miss  Felicie ! 
You  kain'  send  me  away  1" 

"Thee  can  come  back  in  a  week  or  so,  Persis. 
We  will  care  for  thy  mistress.  Thee  must  hide 
now.  Come." 

Friend  Barclay  turned  aside  while  the  two 
women  said  good-bye.  He  hurried  Persis  down 
the  steep  road  to  Red  Forks  without  speaking;  his 
first  word  was  a  whisper  of  caution  to  the  group 
which  cowered  in  the  bushes  close  to  the  water's 
edge. 

"  Straight  ahead  now,  boys.  Thee  sees  that  fire 
to  the  north?  Robert  Channing  is  there,  with  a 
rowboat;  once  in  that  boat,  thee's  safe,  so  push 
ahead." 

They  sped  on,  through  clumps  of  willow  and 
sumac,  keeping  close  to  the  great  still  river.  Save 
for  their  hurried  breathing,  and  the  click  of  the 
twigs  as  they  passed,  there  was  no  sound.  Once  a 
man  stumbled  over  a  rope  of  wild  grape-vine;  now 
and  then  the  shriek  of  some  frightened  bird,  jarred 
awake  by  the  steps  below,  drove  the  blood  to  their 
hearts.  The  moon  was  low  on  the  horizon  now; 
they  were  nearing  the  signal  fire.  Half  a  mile 
more  of  scrub  and  thicket;  then  the  crossing,  and 
safety. 

There  rose  a  tumult  of  fierce,  excited  voices.  A 
swarm  of  dark  figures  poured  around  them,  waving 
lanterns  and  shouting  wildly.  Panic-stricken,  the 


176  Diane 

fugitives  dodged  and  ran  for  the  woods,  or  dived 
into  the  river.  Friend  Barclay  need  not  have 
forbidden  resistance:  they  had  no  thought  but 
flight.  The  posse  was  a  crew  of  young  men  and 
boys,  who  had  joined  the  hunt  for  the  adventure. 
They  were  innocent  of  any  craft  at  their  under 
taking;  they  charged  down  upon  the  negroes, 
whooping  and  yelling;  the  woods  reechoed  with 
their  random  shots.  Their  zeal  o'erleaped  itself; 
under  cover  of  the  uproar,  the  negroes  scuttled  away 
like  so  many  rabbits.  Friend  Barclay  slipped  into 
the  brush,  motioning  Persis  to  follow.  As  she 
stooped  to  push  beneath  a  mass  of  willow,  a  hand 
gripped  her  arm  and  dragged  her  back  into  the 
path. 

"Look  a'here,  boys!"  yelled  a  hunter,  exultant. 
"Got  one  of  'em,  easy  as  winkin'.  Don'  know  who 
she  is,  though;  one  o'  them  purtend  freed  niggers, 
I  'spect."  He  shook  her  viciously.  "Who  are  ye, 
now  ?  Speak  up  !  Who  are  ye  ? " 

The  posse  straggled  back,  with  upraised  lanterns. 
They  regretted  keenly  that  they  had  not  each  a 
prisoner  to  drag  up  for  inspection.  It  was  high 
time  these  underground  railroad  doings  were  tram 
pled  out;  property  hereabouts  would  go  down,  and 
business  decline,  there  was  no  doubt  of  it,  if  this 
nuisance  were  not  put  down.  At  the  same  time, 
it  was  too  bad  that  this  one  prisoner  was  not  a  man ; 
the  capture  of  one  woman  by  eleven  men  seemed 
somehow  a  dubious  triumph. 


A  Brotherhood  of  Impulse  177 

"Who  is  she?"  reiterated  the  hunter,  swinging 
his  lantern.  The  men  pushed  nearer,  blinking. 
It  took  them  a  minute  to  credit  their  eyes.  Then  a 
gasping  exclamation  ran  from  lip  to  lip:  "It's 
Manderson's  Persis!" 

Persis  jerked  her  arm  from  the  hunter's  grip,  and 
stepped  forward  into  the  full  moonlight.  Her 
massive  chest  lifted  under  strangling,  angry  breaths : 
she  seemed  to  swell,  to  tower  above  him.  Her  noble 
old  head  rose  filleted  by  the  handkerchief  as  by  a 
royal  coronet ;  she  swept  the  ring  of  men  with  eyes 
like  finger-touches  of  fire. 

"Yes,  it's  Manderson's  Persis  !  Manderson's  Per 
sis,  goin'  where  she'll  be  her  own  Persis  fer  one 
while !  You  w'ite  folks  let  me  buy  my  Ian'  an' 
pay  my  tax,  an'  build  my  house,  an'  settle  here  ter 
stay.  'No  danger,  'tall,'  you  tell  me.  An'  then 
you  goes  an'  makes  a  law  what  makes  us  all  slaves 
agin.  An'  you  conies  out  an'  hunts  us  down  like 
mad  dogs — you  what's  been  our  fren's  an'  neigh 
bours !  '  Manderson's  Persis  !'  I  cert 'ny  is.  What 
I  wants  know  is,  who's  you — all?" 

The  men  shrank  back,  driven  less  by  shame  than 
by  the  absurd,  half -physical  fear  of  a  woman 
righteously  angry. 

"They's  Jim  Pennick,  fer  one.  Oh,  Lor',  I 
know  you's  gormed  yo'se'f  up  with  butternut  peel,  an' 
you's  put  on  play  whiskers,  but  dey  don'  fool  me. 
Sposen  I  don'  know  dat  squeaky  voice  ?  I  use*  hear 
it  ev'y  day  when  my  summer  sweets  was  ripenin', 


1 78  Diane 

on'y  five  years  back;  you  was'nt  mo'n  grasshopper 
knee-high  then.  You  use'  come  ter  my  cabin,  an* 
holler:  'Mam  Persis,  you  goin'  let  me  climb  yo' 
tree  to-day?'  An'  then  you'd  clomb  her,  an'  eat 
all  de  apples  you  could  hold;  an'  after  that,  you 
could  fin'  room  fer  a  turnover,  ef  it's  bakin'  day. 
You'd  come  inter  my  kitchen,  an'  sit  at  my  table,  an' 
eat  of  my  food.  I  wasn't  no  slave  'oman  then. 
Manderson's  Persis !  You'd  oughter  blush  fer  the 
shame  of  it  now. 

"Ya'as,  an'  there's  Sammy  Dowd.  How  long 
sence  you  count  up  my  'taters  fer  me,  Sammy? 
Dey  ain'  nothin'  happen  so  cur 'us  as  dat  sence  I  kin 
recommember.  Fifteen  bushel'  I  had,  measure' 
out  on  my  cellar  floor;  you  measured  'um  fer  me, 
basket  after  basket,  an'  I  is  keep  tab,  makin'  knots 
on  a  string.  Seem  like  dey  is  pooty  big  baskets, 
but  I  ain't  no  call  ter  be  stingy  with  my  'taters;  I 
kin  al'ays  trust  de  w'ite  folks.  It  ain'  mo'n  a 
week  dat  I  is  down  to  de  store,  an'  de  storekeeper 
say,  'Those  is  eighteen  bushel'  of  de  nices'  taters 
I  wanter  buy.'  I  tell  'im,  'You  ain'  mean  dem 
taters  what  Sammy  Dowd  is  bring  up  an'  sell  fer 
me  ?'  an'  he  tole  me  over  'gin,  '  Yes ;  those  is  eighteen 
bushel*  ob  de  nices'  taters  I  wanter  buy.'  Yessum, 
it  al'ays  bes'  fo'  de  pore  nigger  to  let  de  w'ite  folks  do 
he  business  for  him.  Eighteen  bushel' !  An*  there 
he  is  pay  for  on'y  fifteen  bushel'  ter  me !  I  tell  you, 
de  white  folks,  dey  is  cert'ny  smart. 

"  An*  there's  Royce  McCabe.     I  nussed  'im  when 


A  Brotherhood  of  Impulse  179 

he  is  got  de  fever.  Cross?  Um-m-ph,  he  ain'  let 
me  tech  'im  with  a  trout -pole  mos'  of  de  time;  but 
now  an'  then  he  is  le'  me  rub  'im  when  his  bones 
ache  so  bad.  De  hands  ain'  black  den,"1" what 
stroke  'im;  de  arm  ain'  black  where  he  lay  his  head. 
Maybe  de  fever  make  'im  dat  bline,  he  don'  know 
de  diff-ence ;  you  kain'  al'ays  tell. 

"An'  there's  Philip  Stone.  How's  dat  baby  of 
yourn,  Philip?  How  long  is  it  sence  I  took  'er 
f'om  her  mammy's  arms,  an'  helt  her,  an'  fed  her, 
an'  nussed  her  lak  my  own?  How  long  is  it  sence 
her  mammy  said  to  me,  'Take  good  care  of  her, 
Persis ;  she's  all  Phil  will  have  lef '  ? '  She's  growed 
up  to  a  right  smart  li'l  missy,  now;  she  mus'  be 
goin'  on  six  year  'ole.  But  she's  lak  all  chil'en, 
she's  mighty  keerless;  she  ain'  keep  no  'count  of  de 
law;  she  ain'  pay  no  'tention  whedder  I  is  slave  or 
free  'oman.  She  climbs  on  my  lap,  an'  she  snuggles 
inter  my  ole  neck,  an*  she  don'  keer  a  shake  o* 
her  li'l  head  fer  my  black  skin.  Manderson's 
Persis !  Mos'  like  she  laugh  in  yo'  face  ef  you 
try  'splain  de  diff'ence  'tween  us  ter  her.  Dem 
chil'en,  dey  has  ter  be  growed  up  'fore  dey  kin 
unnerstan'." 

The  men  stood  away  from  her  terrible  scorn. 
Even  the  hunter  felt  himself  abashed,  not  knowing 
why.  The  May  wind  caught  and  fluttered  the 
calico  gown  about  her  splendid  body;  to  their 
averted  glances,  it  was  as  if  she  stood  clothed  in 
avenging  flame. 


i8o  Diane 

"Well,  boys,"  said  the  hunter,  uneasily,  "time 
we's  movin'  along.  Come,  ole  woman." 

"Take  your  hands  off  her,"  growled  McCabe. 
"We'll  see  to  her,  all  right." 

The  hunter's  fuddled  brain  refused  to  grasp  the 
crisis.  "Guess  she's  safe  'nough  with  you,"  he 
hiccoughed.  "Come  'long,  boys.  Plenty  more 
game.  Whoo-oop!"  He  crashed  away  through 
the  brush,  firing  wildly  as  he  ran. 

The  posse  huddled  together,  whispering.  Philip 
Stone's  broken  protest  mingled  with  their  low 
parley.  "I  can't  stand  it,  fellers.  If  I'd  on'y 
dremp  she  was  one  of  'em !  I  thought  it  was  jest  a 
parcel  of  wuthless  niggers,  an'  if  we  could  break  up 
this  gang,  mebby  we  could  stop  the  fool  abolitionists 
from  bringin'  any  more  through  here.  J  don't 
mind  their  gettin'  away;  it's  jest  fer  the  sake  of  the 
town  that  I  kicked.  An*  who'd  a'  thought  of  her 
bein'  in  it?  I  can't  let  it  go  that  way,  boys,  no 
how!" 

Presently  Jim  Pennick  stepped  back  as  spokes 
man;  the  other  men  crowded  behind  him.  "Now, 
Persis,  you  know  what  we're  here  for,  an'  we  can't 
negleck  our  duty.  You  know  that  well  enough." 

Persis  looked  past  him.  Her  eyes  grew  dreary 
with  sad  scorn. 

"An'  you  can't  expect  us  to  leggo  what  we  come 
to  do,  not  even  fer  anybody  we  like  as  much  as  we 
like  you.  But — "  he  halted,  then  dragged  his 
words  to  a  focus,  "But  accidents  will  happen. 


A  Brotherhood  of  Impulse  181 

S'posen,  now,  we  try  to  take  you  back  to  town  in 
that  skiff  that's  waitin'  right  down  yonder — ye 
see?  And — well,  happen  we'd  be  helt  back  by 
somethin',  an' — you'd  git  there  fust.  We  ain't 
responsible  to  no  law,  nateral  or  onnateral,  fer 
what  happens  nex'." 

Persis  set  her  palms  on  her  broad  hips ;  she  swayed 
forward  and  scrutinised  him.  Her  voice  rolled  out, 
a  great,  soft  organ-note.  "Honey,  you  s'pose  I'm 
goin'  ter  let  you  go  back  to  town  an'  be  laughed 
at,  jes'  fer  an  ole  nigger  like  me?" 

Jim  started.  "Mammy— you — you  damned  old 

fool,  do  as  we  tell  you,  or  we'll "  He  set  his 

teeth  on  his  breaking  voice.  "  Come  along,  now,  an* 
git  into  the  boat.  We  ain't  got  no  time  to  lose." 

He  shoved  Persis  ahead  of  him  into  the  skiff.  As 
he  would  have  followed  her,  he  tripped  on  a  pro 
jecting  willow  root,  and  sprawled  headlong.  It 
was  very  badly  done,  indeed;  had  the  hunter  been 
there  to  see,  even  his  blurred  wits  would  have 
marvelled  at  the  neatness  of  the  coincidence. 
Persis  was  ready  for  her  part.  With  one  fling  of  the 
oars,  she  shot  beyond  reach.  The  crowd  surged 
down  to  the  shore,  howling  and  yelling.  The  de 
spair  of  the  hunter  who  sees  his  quarry  slip  from  his 
grasp  was  audible  to  the  ear  of  faith  alone. 

With  half  a  dozen  strokes,  Persis  swung  the  boat 
into  the  full  current.  Something  small  and  heavy 
brushed  her  shoulder  and  fell  with  a  thud  on  the 
bottom  of  the  boat.  She  picked  it  up;  it  was  a 


182  Diane 

leathern  tobacco-pouch,  stuffed  with  the  ready 
money  of  the  posse. 

"Mind  you  pay  your  board  while  you're  gone, 
Persis,"  shouted  Jim,  through  a  trumpet  of  his 
palms. 

Persis  stared  dumbly  at  the  money  spilling  into 
her  lap;  she  looked  back  at  the  dim  group  ashore, 
waving  brotherly  hands.  The  oars  slipped  from 
her  grasp;  her  gray  old  head  fell  into  the  covert  of 
her  arms. 


CHAPTER  XII 
RESPITE 

SUNDAY  quiet  brooded  over  the  Commune.  It 
had  rained  the  night  before,  and  the  tree-stems 
stood  out  black  against  the  hollowed  turquoise  sky. 
The  files  of  tulip  and  daffodil  in  the  prim  little  gar 
dens,  tucked  up  against  the  squat,  white-faced 
houses,  had  yielded  place  to  pansies  and  four- 
o 'clocks,  and  snow-on-the -mountain ;  the  village 
breathed  of  lilac.  Wind  and  rain  had  tapestried 
the  flagstones  with  starred  blossom ;  but  the  boughs 
still  stooped  with  bloom.  Wherever  one  might 
look  hung  the  drifted  purples,  heavy  as  the  moveless 
violet  bank  of  rain  in  the  western  sky. 

It  had  been  a  day  of  peace  to  Diane.  True,  the 
dissent  among  the  Communists  was  still  manifest. 
Pere  Cabet's  faction,  made  up  of  the  Citoyens  who 
were  ready  and  anxious  to  make  him  Dictator,  still 
refused  to  sit  at  meat  with  their  democratic  brethren, 
who  persisted  in  maintaining  the  Equal  Rights 
Charter;  the  carpenters  of  antagonistic  belief  would 
not  share  the  use  of  the  common  tools ;  the  children 
in  the  school-room,  like  the  wise  fathers  in  the 
Council,  held  the  opposite  benches  which  they  had 
chosen  when  the  wrangle  began,  five  months  before. 

183 


*  84  Diane 

But  beneath  this  crust  of  spite  and  obstinacy,  the 
spirit  of  the  people  seemed  to  yield.  During  the 
past  few  days,  the  men  had  thawed  so  far  as  to 
greet  one  another  gayly  as  they  went  to  their  work. 
Of  a  clear  evening,  the  women  sat  no  longer  in  dis 
mal  state,  each  on  her  snowy  doorstone;  instead, 
they  strolled  from  house  to  house  in  clamorous 
groups,  arm  locked  in  arm,  their  polished  sabots 
ringing  on  the  flags.  The  monthly  dance,  held  the 
night  before  in  the  Phalanstery,  had  seemed  to 
mark  the  passing  of  the  storm. 

Diane  dimpled  as  she  bent  over  her  little  port 
folio.  At  last  she  had  something  of  pleasure  to 
write  to  Sceur  Aloysia  —  dear  Sceur  Aloysia,  who 
had  read,  with  the  patience  of  an  angel,  so  many 
chronicles  of  despair.  She  frowned  for  shame  at 
the  thought  of  those  packets  of  gloom,  and  vowed 
nevermore  to  voice  her  grief,  by  lip  or  by  pen. 
Though  when  one  is  eighteen  and  motherless,  such 
a  resolve  costs  dear. 

"Beloved  and  Most  Honoured  Reverend  Sister:1' 
So  it  began,  this  veined  pink  sheet,  sealed  with  a 
golden  Cupid,  written  in  swaying  lines,  fine  as  witch- 
thread,  shaded  with  firm,  repeated  strokes  on  every 
arched  and  flowing  capital.  "It  is  with  bliss  that 
I  have  read  your  most  truthful  letter  to  console. 
I  hope  that  it  is  that  yours  is  of  health  perfect; 
myself,  I  am  most  vigorous  and  all  joyful.  Ah, 
my  Sister,  that  you  could  have  beheld  the  scene  of 
this  evening  pr6c6dent !  Picture  to  yourself  this 


Respite  185 

grande  salle,  its  walls  all  glorious  in  blue  and  in 
gold;  this  ceiling,  carved  of  the  vast  beams,  with 
the  thousand  lamps,  hung  as  the  grape-clusters,  and 
embellished  with  vines  and  flowers  savage;  this 
floor,  made  polished  as  the  grand  staircase  of  the 
Convent !  Helas  !  Canst  thou  remember  that  most 
sad  day  when  I  have  rolled  from  the  top  of  that  stair 
case  to  the  bottom,  being  pursued  of  the  Sceur 
Antonine  when  Eug6nie  de  Lanoye  and  I  were 
discovered  to  eat  of  the  spiced  bread  upon  an  hour 
unlawful  ? 

"Then  upon  this  smooth  floor  behold  them 
dance;  sons  and  fathers  of  the  Commune,  in  gar 
ments  of  coton  bleu,  and  sabots,  black  and  shining, 
carved  thin  and  fine ;  upon  the  one  is  cut  the  initial, 
upon  the  other  a  rose  or  a  lily,  all  perfect,  save  that 
it  is  black.  Has  it  of  wonder  that  we  become  so 
proud  of  him  which  has  constructed  these  shoes,  Toni 
Leseure?  The  hairs  of  the  men  are  cut  close;  the 
hairs  of  the  women  are  arranged  with  magnificence, 
although  their  costume  composes  itself  also  of  the 
coton  bleu.  The  music  is  of  heaven.  Forty  musi 
cians,  from  the  best  theatres  of  France,  with  Lucien 
Pilout,  once  chef  d'orchestre  in  Lyons,  at  their  head. 
You,  yourself,  honoured  Sister,  would  find  that  your 
feet  must  partake,  even  though  your  soul  rests  seated. 

"The  first  dance  is  one  quadrille,  which  the  Pere 
Cabet  will  lead,  with  the  ancient  Citoyenne  Marthe, 
in  the  old  days  the  Baronne  de  Sourche.  She  has 
still  of  beauty;  her  hair  is  as  frost ;  but  she  treads  as 


1 86  Diane 

when  she  danced  the  memiet  de  la  cour  for  the 
King  Charles.  Her  jewels  are  now  possessed  of  the 
Commune,  but  her  eyes  still  hold  their  sparkle;  ah, 
this  is  a  brave  spirit !  Next  to  them  dances  the 
young  Heinrich,  and  will  lead  his  betrothed,  Minna ; 
they  know  how  to  dance  only  as  they  have  learned 
upon  this  floor;  they  are  both  of  grand  height,  but 
their  steps  contain  grace.  With  myself  will  prome 
nade  Valentin  Saugier,  head  plowman,  and,  by  turns, 
preceptor  in  history;  it  is  as  if  I  dance  with  a 
mountain,  this  creature  enorme,  who  carries  me  from 
my  feet  with  each  turn,  and  whose  step  makes  the 
wall  to  shiver  !  Beside  us  come  Achille,  the  black 
smith,  and  Lucie,  blanchisseuse ;  but  do  not  suppose, 
dear  Sister,  that  mine  is  an  ignoble  vis-a-vis.  Five 
years  since,  Citoyen  Achille  Favard,  blacksmith  to 
the  Commune,  was  Monsieur  Favard,  Royal  Engi 
neers;  Citoyenne  Lucie  was  then  Mademoiselle 
Lucie  Sagansan.  The  name  carries  no  import  to 
you,  dear  Sister,  nor  to  me;  but  they  tell  me  that 
when  she  spoke  in  the  great  Theatre,  men  and 
women  breathed  as  she  commanded:  they  laughed, 
they  wept,  they  lived,  with  her.  You  could  believe 
it,  could  you  now  behold  her.  Small  and  thin,  with 
the  dimmed  eyes  and  the  hands  scarred  with  toil, 
she  has  yet  of  magic !  You  may  pity  her  the  worn 
body,  the  beauty  which  is  departed;  but  if  she 
speaks !  Ah,  you  are  then  hers,  to  follow  her 
command.  Your  heart  is  water  to  her  will. 

"The  floor  is  crowded,  for  all  have  a  part,  even 


Respite  187 

to  the  infants  of  fourteen  years.  At  the  hour  of 
eleven,  there  sound  three  notes  from  the  great  bell 
of  the  Phalanstery;  the  women  then  depart  to  the 
kitchen,  with  much  of  gayety.  They  return, 
pushing  before  them  the  long  tables,  mounted  upon 
wheels,  and  spread  with  plates  of  white  bread  and 
bowls  of  sweetened  coffee.  Regard  their  feast! 
One  longs  to  set  before  these  brave  men  the  fruits 
and  wines  which  they  once  enjoyed ;  yet  it  would  be 
found  difficult  to  make  brighter  the  smiles  of  joy 
upon  those  faces,  when  they  behold  even  this  plain 
regale. 

"The  tables  are  removed,  the  musicians  and 
dancers  depart,  each  family  to  its  mansion;  one 
listens  with  delight  to  their  singing  as  they  disap 
pear,  holding  each  other  hand  in  hand.  Truly, 
beloved  Sister,  it  is  most  wonderful  to  behold  how 
grand  a  river  of  pleasure  may  flow  from  how  small 
a  source ! 

"  You  make  request  to  know  of  what  friends  I  am 
possessed  in  this  new  world.  I  dare  to  count  for 
myself  a  friend  in  every  member  of  the  Commune ; 
I  have  to-day,  at  last,  won  my  demand  of 
the  Pere  Cabet,  that  I  shall  assume  the  garments 
and  share  the  labours  of  these,  my  brothers  and  my 
sisters;  and  I  feel  that  they  will  now  receive  me  as 
one  of  themselves.  To-morrow  I  go  to  dress  myself 
in  the  gown  of  blue  and  the  sabots;  then  I 
shall  take  my  place  as  helper  in  the  sewing.  It 
will  be  sadly  done,  at  first ;  but  I  shall  learn. 


1 88  Diane 

"Next  to  the  Pere  Cabet  in  my  love  stands  the 
Petit  Clef,  an  infant  who  has  thirteen  years,  but 
whose  body  is  that  of  seven  years  alone.  He  is 
as  a  clear  sea ;  one  looks  down,  down ;  but  the  deeps 
are  farther  than  the  eye  may  follow.  Through  him 
I  know  many  of  the  Americans;  heretics,  yes;  but 
kind !  There  is  Monsieur  le  Major  Faulkner,  whose 
voice  booms  as  a  great  bell;  there  is  M'sieu  1'Ami 
Barclay,  and  Madame,  his  wife,  who  are  old  and 
possess  no  children,  therefore  they  make  them 
selves  father  and  mother  to  the  whole  world; 
there  is  Mademoiselle  Rose,  of  a  tallness  like  to  the 
Blue  Mary  in  the  little  chapel,  but  with  the  eyes  of 
brown,  and  the  laugh  like  all  the  birds;  and  M'sieu 
le  Capitaine  Channing,  her  cousin,  to  whom,  one 
says,  she  has  been  betrothed  since  childhood " 

Diane's  fingers  clinched  over  the  pen.  The  page 
swam  and  darkened. 

"He  is  most  kind,  to  Petit  Clef  and  to  myself. 
He  has  taken  us  upon  this  grand  river,  the  Mississippi, 
in  his  small  boat ;  he  has  made  for  us  fetes  upon  the 
islands,  and  has  taken  us  that  we  might  see  the 
ancient  Fort,  far  up  the  hills.  He  is  orphan,  like 
myself  and  Petit  Clef;  but  he  has  of  memories;  he 
has  shown  to  me  these  miniatures  of  his  parents,  and 
has  told  me  of  his  life  in  the  nation  of  Virginia,  and 
of  the  magnanimity  of  the  Major  Faulkner,  his 
Uncle,  and  of  Mademoiselle  Rose.  But  he  is 
heretic;  and  he  believes  not  in  the  Commune. 
'Man  strikes  each  for  himself,  in  this  America/  so 


Respite  189 

he  says.  He  cares  but  for  his  work,  and  to  improve 
the  estate  of  these  miserables,  the  negroes,  whom 
he  will  attempt  to  aid ;  for  the  divine  doctrines  of  the 
Commune ' ' 

"Did  I  startle  you,  Mademoiselle?" 

The  pink  sheet  crackled  beneath  Diane's  shut 
fingers.  Channing,  breathless  and  laughing,  stood 
in  the  doorway,  Petit  Clef  clinging  to  his  shoulder. 
His  eyes  kindled  at  sight  of  her  drooped  lashes,  her 
brow,  hotly  crimson.  But,  being  blind,  he  did  not 
see  the  tremour  of  the  hand  which  greeted  him. 

"  We  are  returned  from  one  most  perilous  voyage," 
proclaimed  Petit  Clef.  "We  have  made  the  tour 
of  the  Sundered  Island,  we  have  brought  back 
beasts  and  fruits  most  marvellous."  He  tossed  a 
sheaf  of  wild  geranium  into  her  lap,  and  perched  him 
self  on  the  table.  "  Mademoiselle  has  been  writing. 
Behold  the  stain  of  purple  upon  her  fingers !  And 
she  has  not  yet  finished,  but  it  is  well  that  we 
interrupt."  His  hands  twitched  with  mischief; 
his  red -brown  eyes  shot  impish  sparks.  "Too 
much  of  writing  breeds  melancholy;  witness  Leon 
Ximinez,  great  booby  of  fifteen  years,  who  does 
not  yet  comprehend  his  alphabet.  I  discovered 
him  this  morning,  building  the  A,  B,  C  with  twigs, 
upon  the  grass.  One  would  imagine  him  a  bird 
Nebuchadnezzar,  who  must  construct  himself  a 
nest.  His  tears  watered  the  earth.  'Helas,  Petit 
Clef,'  he  made  lament,  '  If  that  most  excommunicate 
X  came  early  in  the  alphabet,  I  would  not  murmur. 


190  Diane 

Smile,  if  thou  wilt;  but  I  shall  die  in  my  old  age 
before  that  I  can  spell  mine  own  name ! '  And 
voila  Mademoiselle,  herself  so  pensive !  Has  the 
Commune  no  joys  of  which  to  write?'* 

"What  did  you  do  when  L6on  said  that?"  inter 
rupted  Channing,  to  draw  the  fire.  Petit  Clef 
squirmed. 

"That  to  answer  is  not  difficult,"  twinkled  Diane. 
"  He  came  not  to  breakfast ;  when  I  went  in  search — " 

"  Chut ! "     Petit  Clef  glowered. 

"  Ah,  then,  I  will  keep  silence.  But  I  will  disclose 
that  which  I  have  found;  the  alphabet,  most  care 
fully  built  of  twigs,  and  the  full  name  of  Leon, 
written  in  the  clay  below.  And  now  Leon  struts 
as  a  peacock,  for  he  can  write  and  spell  his  mournful 
name,  even  to  the  X  most  formidable.  His  mas 
ter " 

Petit  Clef  dropped  from  the  table  and  limped  to 
the  door.  Diane  winced  beneath  his  backward 
look  of  reproach. 

"  I  go  to  tell  my  affairs  to  the  trees,"  he  remarked. 
"M'sieu  Channing  trusts  his  plans  to  one  parch 
ment  sheet,  with  the  little  crosses  of  red;  the 
Pere  Cabet  shouts  his  from  the  housetop;  no  man 
of  wisdom  hides  his  in  the  heart  of  a  maid !" 

"I'd  like  to  trust  mine  to  one,"  said  Channing, 
steadily.  The  room  dazzled  with  dancing  white 
lights ;  his  face  flushed,  darkly. 

"Petit  Clef  speaks  truth;  not  even  one's  dearest 
friends  are  to  be  trusted,"  said  Diane,  remorsefully. 


Respite  191 

"It  was  but  in  justice  to  him  that  I  spoke;  his  jest 
seemed  so  cruel !  He  is  as  the  whole  Commune ;  he 
makes  himself  appear  cold  and  harsh,  when  he  is 
all  love  and  charity  within." 

No,  he  must  not  speak.  She  would  not  under 
stand.  She  was  only  a  child;  she  could  not  know 
nor  care;  he  dared  not  implore  her  lest  he  vex  or 
grieve  her,  this  sweet  lady  of  his  love.  He  would 
not  add  the  bewilderment  of  his  protests  to  her 
burden.  Her  spirit  had  already  all  that  it  might 
bear.  Yet  the  blood  stung  in  his  veins;  he  would 
not  look  at  her  as  he  spoke  again. 

' '  Mademoiselle,  I  have  come  to  talk  with  you 
about  the  Commune.  No,  I'm  not  here  to  criticise. 
Its  aims  are  splendid,  I  know,  and  I'm  too  ignorant 
to  scoff  at  its  methods.  But  there's  trouble  ahead. 
There  is  peace  now,  but  it  is  only  a  surface  calm. 
The  people  are  exasperated  with  Pere  Cabet,  and 
they  want  nothing  better  than  the  chance  to  break 
with  him  openly.  At  the  first  affront,  the  colony 
will  split  into  factions  again:  it's  a  short  step  from 
factions  to  ruin.  The  Pere  Cabet — he  is  not  a 
young  man,  Mademoiselle ;  and  his  heart  is  bound  up 
in  the  Commune.  And  in  that  case — what  for  you  ? ' ' 

Diane  reeled  a  little,  shaken  with  anger.  "  Fac 
tion  !  Ruin !  How  dare  you  speak  the  words ! 
Had  you  seen  them  last  night  at  their  merry 
making,  joyous  as  children,  friends  each  with  all ! 
I  can  divine  what  you  have  come  to  say,  M'sieu; 
that  the  Commune  is  not  a  fit  place  for  me,  that  I 


19 2  Diane 

should  return  to  France.     L'Ami  Chandler  has  said 
it;  M'sieu  Faulkner  has  said  it;  Mademoiselle  Rose 
has  spoken  it  with  her  eyes.     Since  what  time  has 
one's  home  ceased  to  be  the  best  abiding  place?" 
"  But  is  it  home  to  you,  Mademoiselle  ? " 
"The   only   one   that    I    may   ever   know.     My 
people — they  are  dead,  long  before  I  have  of  re 
membrance.     I  am  what  the  Pere  Cabet  has  made 
me.     He  has  been  father  and  mother." 

"And  the  Sisters,  whom  you  love  so  much?" 
She  turned  sharply,  thrusting  the  crushed  pink 
paper  into  her  bodice.  He  saw  the  tide  of  flame 
rise  in  her  white  neck.  "They  were  most  good 
to  me,"  she  stammered.  "But — I  have  no  claim 
upon  them  more  !  I  am  here  according  to  the  Pere 
Cabet 's  will.  He  needs  me,  so  he  believes :  surely 
he  is  able  to  protect  me.  As  if  I  could  require 
of  protection !  Let  me  assure  you,  M'sieu,  the 
Communists  are  not  the  sullen  brutes  you  deem 
them.  They  have  of  honour  and  of  courage. 
They  will  not  fail  the  Pere  Cabet ;  they  will  not  fail 
to  themselves!" 

"  Mademoiselle,  what  bond  holds  them  together?" 
Diane  stared.     "Surely  you  have  read  the  Con 
stitution  !    The  love  of  justice ;  the  plan  to  organise 
labour  so  that  each  may  labour  for  all;  the  hope 

to  gain  happiness " 

"There  you  have  the  real  bond,  Mademoiselle. 
So  we  can  win  happiness  by  working  for  each  other 
and  by  making  plenty  of  money  for  each  other. 


Respite  193 

And  work  and  money  are  all  that  is  necessary  to  our 
content." 

Diane's  lips  parted,  quivering. 

"I  comprehend,  Monsieur.  The  soul  is  for 
gotten." 

"The  soul  is  forgotten."  Channing  was  of  a 
sudden  angrily  embarrassed  by  the  false  shame 
which  besets  the  Anglo-Saxon  when  he  finds  himself 
speaking  deeply  on  deep  things.  He  fought  it 
down  and  spoke  again. 

"  Men  have  tried  to  live  for  each  other  in  this  way 
before,  Mademoiselle.  To  succeed  at  it  they  must 
have  one  great  splendid  purpose — so  great  that  it 
makes  all  the  other  things  of  life  look  small  and 
worthless  beside  it.  It  must  mean  more  to  them 
than  the  wish  for  place  and  honour.  Bread  and 
clothes  and  books  must  be  playthings  beside  it. 
The  soldiers  of  Cromwell  had  such  a  purpose,  So 
had  the  Puritans.  So  had  your  own  people,  the 
Huguenots,  at  La  Rochelle.  As  long  as  men  have 
a  hope  like  that  to  cling  to,  they'll  hold  together ; 
but  when  they  lose  faith  in  their  Plan,  what  is 
there  to  keep  them  from  striking  out,  each  man 
for  himself?  Will  their  religion  hold  them  back?" 

"The  Pere  Cabet — he  has  no  religion.  He  holds 
that  obedience  to  moral  law  is  enough.  He  pro 
claims,  'I  clothe  no  man  in  Divinity.'" 

"  Do  the  Colonists  agree  with  him?  Do  you  know 
the  name  his  partisans  give  him  among  themselves  ? 
Do  you  know  that  many  of  his  followers  send  for 


194  Diane 

him  when  they  are  sick,  to  touch  and  heal  them? 

"That  is  but  a  fond  habit." 

"It  is  that  fond  habit  which  has  kept  them 
together.  When  they  once  stop  worshipping  him, 
they'll  be  scattered  in  a  month.  But  I  did  not 
come  just  to  worry  you,  Mademoiselle.  I  came  to 
tell  you  that  my  cousin  Rose  is  to  start  East  in 
a  month,  to  stay  till  fall  at  her  home  in  Belhaven. 
She  wishes  very  much  that  you  would  go  with  her, 
and  visit  her  during  the  hot  weather.  You  could 
come  back  in  October ;  by  that  time,  the  Commune 
— the  affairs  of  the  Commune  will  be  settled,  in  all 
probability.  You'll  think  we're  meddling,  I  know; 
but  we  hate  to  see  you  stay  here,  in  this  dismal 
place,  and  Pere  Cabet  agrees  with  us.  He  says 
he  had  not  thought  how  dull  and  harsh  the  life 
would  be  for  you  when  he  sent  you  word  to  come. 
Rose  is  coming  to-morrow,  to  talk  it  over.  To  be 
sure,  I  know  it's  not  my  place  to  come  and  urge ;  I 
don't  wonder  that  you're  angry.  But  I  had  hoped 
to  ask,  if  you  choose  to  stay,  instead,  that  you 
would  let  me  care  for  you,  if  anything  should 
happen — to  the  Pere  Cabet."  Channing  cut  him 
self  short,  suddenly  remembering ;  the  sweat  beaded 
white  around  his  lips.  What  right  had  he,  champion 
of  a  forlorn  cause,  to  drag  her  into  his  morass? 
How  dared  he  beg  the  joy  of  protecting  her — he, 
who  had  pledged  his  strength  and  yielded  every 
right  to  the  work  which  was  to  come  ? 

Diane  frowned,  wondering.     He  had  spoken  the 


Respite  195 

last  sentences  in  English,  so  rapidly  that  she  did 
not  comprehend.  He  was  deeply  moved,  she 
knew;  but  her  bewildered  anger  swept  away  all 
understanding.  "The  Pere  Cabet — he  would  not 
— he  could  not  send  me  away!"  she  wailed.  She 
ran  to  the  doorway,  sobbing.  Channing  watched 
her  as  she  leaned  against  the  frame.  He  groaned 
under  the  misery  of  his  impotence  to  soothe. 

Pere  Cabet  paced  up  the  narrow  street,  gay  in 
the  holiday  finery  which  he  alone  of  all  the  colonists 
dared  assume.  This  suit  of  velvet,  so  the  colonists 
whispered,  had  lain  in  its  cedar  chests  for  half  a 
generation,  save  on  the  rare  days  when  its  glory 
dazzled  their  sight.  It  was  of  the  cut  of  twenty 
years  before;  the  long-tailed  coat,  ablaze  with  gold 
buttons ;  the  flaring  trousers,  striped  with  tarnished 
braid;  the  broad,  bell-crowned  white  hat,  which 
Petit  Clef  loved  to  stroke,  furry  as  a  hare's  breast — 
all  pictured  forth  the  glories  of  the  Last  Bourbon. 
The  tall  black  stock,  which  braced  his  shaven  chin, 
struck  the  one  uncompromising  modern  note;  one 
felt  that  Pere  Cabet,  the  gay,  the  expansive,  the 
confident,  must  in  time  be  strangled  by  this  grim 
Puritan  noose.  To-day  his  colour  was  high,  his 
step  the  ringing  tread  of  hope.  He  bowed  right  and 
left  like  a  prince,  never  awaiting  the  salute  of  the 
passers-by;  he  swung  a  huge  gilded  cane  in  one 
jewelled  hand;  his  high,  seeing  forehead  seemed  to 
give  off  light.  The  children — grave-eyed  poppets, 
a  doll  Commune — backed  away,  clutching  at  their 


196  Diane 

mothers'  skirts  as  he  passed.  The  real  Pere  Cabet, 
whose  jeans  pockets  always  bulged  with  treasure, 
whose  shoulder  was  a  refuge,  might  hide  beneath 
that  glittering  shell;  they  would  take  no  chances. 
So  might  the  babes  of  the  Utopian  Isle  shrink  from 
the  splendour  of  the  Ambassadors. 

He  mounted  his  own  steps  with  a  flourish;  he 
greeted  Channing  with  florid  courtesy;  he  kissed 
Diane's  wrist.  ''Tears,  my  little  one?  And  the 
Capitaine  Channing,  our  chief  detractor,  present? 
It  is  that  his  unbelief  in  our  brave  Commune  has 
grieved  you?  Ah,  we  will  teach  him!  It  is  now 
past  three  hours ;  on  the  stroke  of  four,  the  Citoyens 
meet,  to  declare  their  approval  of  my  policy  in  our 
last  purchases  of  land,  and  to  bestow  upon  me  still 
higher  powers  of  appointment.  Regard  their  con 
fidence  in  me,  my  daughter.  Is  it  not  sublime?'* 

Diane  clung  to  him;  her  eyes  glowed.  "We  will 
take  with  us  this  heretic,  that  he  may  learn  the 
truth.  Ah,  it  will  not  be  pleasing,  Monsieur;  but 
you  are  clear  of  sight,  and  you  are  brave.  You 
will  not  lament  to  see  your  iron  creed  of  self  for 
self  destroyed.  Nor  will  you  try  to  deny  its  ruin." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  be  proved  in  the  wrong,"  said 
Channing.  He  put  out  his  hand  to  Diane.  "You 
will  go — to  watch  my  downfall,  Mademoiselle?" 

Diane  laughed,  exultant.  Pere  Cabet 's  assurances 
had  warmed  her  heart  like  wine.  "Aye,  Monsieur ! 
We  will  soften  that  heart  of  ice  !  We  will  show  you 
that  the  true  Commune  needs  possess  but  the  spirit 


Respite  197 

of  Brotherhood;  there  can  be  no  higher  purpose. 
With  that  purpose,  all  things  are  its  own !" 

She  flung  on  the  long  green  silken  cloak  and  the 
rose-wreathed  bonnet  which  made  her  holiday 
array.  Petit  Clef  met  them  as  they  crossed  the 
flagged  path  to  the  Phalanstery.  He  barred  the 
way  like  a  mutinous  chipmunk. 

"I  do  not  wish  you  to  go  to  the  Phalanstery, 
Diane." 

"Why  not?" 

"It  is  not  seemly.  No  man  can  say  what  you 
may  hear.  I  cannot  trust  you  to  them." 

Pere  Cabet  leaned  against  a  post,  shaking. 
Channing  straightened  his  mouth  with  an  effort. 

"Then  lend  thyself  as  her  escort,"  said  Pere 
Cabet,  blandly.  "Surely  three  men  will  suffice  to 
her  protection." 

The  child  set  his  grasp  into  the  ruffles  of  her 
flowered  gown.  "It  is  not  best  for  her  to  enter. 
I  do  not  permit  it." 

Diane  put  her  arm  around  him.  "Is  it  that  you 
need  me,  Petit  Clef?" 

"Need  you!"  Petit  Clef's  mouth  drooped  into 
bored  creases.  "Not  while  the  sky  and  the  trees 
remain.  It  is  for  your  own  sake  that  I  request  you, 
Mademoiselle,  to  stay  away." 

"  And  it  is  for  my  own  sake  that  I  insist ! "  Diane 
caught  his  hand  and  dragged  him  beside  her, 
laughing.  "You  shall  come  also,  Petit  Clef,  as 
chastisement  that  you  have  spoken  so  harshly  to 


1 98  Diane 

me.  Also  you  shall  hear  confusion  pronounced  upon 
the  views  of  your  dear  friend,  this  scoffer,  M'sieu 
Channing.  Are  you  not  intimidated,  Oberon?" 

"Mademoiselle!"  The  child  twitched  his  hand 
away  and  stalked  proudly  into  the  Phalanstery  at 
her  side.  "Petit  Clef  complains  never — until  he 
is  hurt.  My  punishment  is  still  at  some  distance." 


CHAPTER  XIII 
ROUGH  WATER 

THEY  filed  into  the  Phalanstery  six  hundred 
strong,  men  and  women  poorly  clad  and  bent  with 
toil,  yet  moving  with  the  spirit  and  the  grace 
which  neither  drudgery  nor  want  may  quench  from 
gentle  blood.  As  an  audience,  they  were  amiable, 
but  indifferent.  They  were  here  for  no  arduous 
purpose ;  they  had  come  merely  to  give  proof  of  their 
agreement  on  the  new  Compromise,  and  to  show 
their  friendliness  towards  the  Pere  Cabet.  True, 
the  Pere  Cabet  had  conducted  himself  as  a  spoiled 
child.  His  quarrels  with  the  lessees  of  their  farm 
land  had  jeopardised  the  spring  planting;  his 
philippics  against  the  pigs  of  legislators,  who  had 
refused  to  annul  the  State  Charter  limiting  his  own 
powers,  had  brought  ridicule  upon  the  Commune; 
but  he  was  still  their  leader,  and  it  seemed  best  for 
them  to  hold  their  solidarity  by  granting  him  meed 
of  reverence.  Truly,  the  surface  was  most  tranquil. 

Pere  Cabet  rose,  slowly.  His  hands  were  full  of 
eager  tremors;  his  face,  fair  with  the  touching 
fairness  of  abstemious  age,  gathered  colour,  beneath 
those  cordial  glances.  Ah,  they  were  his  own  again, 
these  vain  people,  who  had  wandered  so  far  after 

199 


200  Diane 

strange  gods !  A  weaker  man  might  have  been 
content  to  rejoice  over  their  return ;  but  he,  Cabet, 
could  never  fail  in  his  duty  to  those  who  erred,  lest 
they  stray  again  into  crooked  paths.  And  what 
might  be  the  duty  of  the  leader,  forsooth,  if  not  to 
admonish  ? 

Wise  fool,  he  plunged  at  once  into  a  bitter  ar 
raignment  of  the  claims  of  the  majority.  The 
right  of  the  citizen  to  enjoy  the  fruits  of  his  tiny 
door-plot ;  to  choose  his  share  of  the  work,  and  that 
of  his  wife ;  to  dictate  the  education  of  his  children ; 
to  use  a  tithe  of  his  earnings  for  himself,  instead  of 
pouring  all  into '  the  common  fund ;  each  separate 
heresy  was  held  up  for  their  shame,  then  stabbed 
through  and  through  with  merciless  gibe.  More 
over,  since  it  did  not  suffice  that  he  should  warn  and 
advise,  he  should  now  stamp  out  these  evils  by 
public  censure. 

A  breeze  of  dissent  passed  through  the  hall. 
Six  months  before,  Pere  Cabet  could  have  held  an 
audience  spellbound  through  hours  of  vituperation, 
by  the  spell  of  his  witching  speech;  but  the  charm 
was  shattered.  Since  the  February  night  when  his 
passion  for  supremacy  had  burst  from  his  lips  in 
frenzied  insults  against  the  majority,  those  humbler 
men  who  had  dared  to  resist  him,  his  disciples 
themselves  could  not  claim  its  spell.  To-day  they 
frowned  at  one  another,  charing ;  not  a  man  of  them 
who  would  not  have  yielded  himself  gladly  as  the 
scapegoat  for  his  tirade,  if  by  so  doing  he  might 


Rough  Water  201 

draw  the  fire  from  the  majority.  Mockery  they 
might  endure  from  that  cool,  scornful  phalanx ;  but 
pity,  never. 

"Regard  how  easily  are  you  led  away,  men  and 
women  of  the  Commune,  from  your  straight  path ! 
Witness  Sosthene  Magloire,  to  whom  we  have  con 
fided  our  funds,  that  he  may  buy  for  us  maize  for  our 
planting.  He  has  come  to  me,  this  freluquet, 
and  has  made  request,  'mon  Pere  Cabet,  permit 
that  I  may  spend  my  share  of  this  money  for  cattle. 
If  I  spend  all  for  corn,  we  will  produce  more  than 
we  can  use  or  sell.'  His  share,  ma  foil  That  he 
should  pit  his  judgment  against  mine,  moi,  Cabet ! 
That  he  should  claim  a  share,  a  portion,  of  his  own ! 
When  will  we  learn  that  for  us  there  stands  no 
longer  such  a  word  as  share?  The  portion  of  the 
one  is  but  the  portion  of  the  all. 

"Also  must  we  strive  against  the  evil  of  selfish 
love,  which  reveals  itself  in  the  ways  most  innocent. 
Witness  Toni  Sauve,  who  has  demanded,  'Permit, 
mon  Pere  Cabet,  that  I  labour  for  an  hour  at  night, 
that  my  father  may  possess  that  hour  by  day,  to 
read  in  the  cabinet  de  lecture.  His  eyes  fail,  and 
to  use  them  by  night  gives  him  much  pain.'  'Is  it 
just  that  I  grant  you  this  grace?'  I  have  made 
reply.  'Would  you  do  so  much  for  any  other 
man  of  the  Commune?  Why  should  he,  your 
father,  be  dearer  to  you  than  these,  your  brothers  ? 
You  may  not  give  to  one  what  you  can  not  give  to 
all.'" 


202  Diane 

Channing  fumbled  stupidly  for  some  shift  to 
break  the  thread.  The  high,  upbraiding  voice 
dazzled  him  into  groping  silence. 

"Then  we  must  curb  these  vanities,  these  passions 
for  the  toys  which  were  treasured  by  us  before  we 
learned  their  baseness.  There  stands  in  this  Com 
mune  to-day  a  man  who  still  cherishes  the  buckles 
of  gold  which  were  his  sister's  gift  to  him  upon  his 
day  of  bridal.  A  Citoyenne  in  our  midst  dares 
hoard  the  cups  and  dishes  of  carved  silver  which  have 
come  to  her  as  the  heritage  of  her  race.  Often 
have  I  urged  her  to  place  them  in  the  common 
fund;  always  she  will  reply,  'They  are  come  to  me 
from  my  mother's  mother;  and  to  my  children's 
children  alone  will  I  yield  them.'  Shame  upon  you, 
misers !  Pensioners  upon  the  bounty  of  the  Com 
mune  !" 

A  curious  sigh  breathed  through  the  room.  The 
eyes  of  all  turned  as  by  instinct  to  the  front  bench 
in  the  section  held  by  the  majority.  A  little  white- 
haired  woman  sat  trimly  erect  on  the  wide  seat. 
Her  clear,  dark  eyes  watched  the  speaker  with  grave 
meditation;  her  high,  pure  profile  stood  out  un 
ruffled  as  ivory  against  the  frescoed  wall.  The 
people  nodded,  approving.  Even  the  Pere  Cabet's 
thunders  might  not  shake  the  old  Marquise  when 
she  knew  herself  in  the  right. 

"  Also  will  I  pray  you,  faithful  disciples,  that  you 
rear  your  children  to  avoid  these  evils.  Teach  them 
to  live  these  grand  principles  of  Unity  and  Equality, 


Rough  Water  203 

even  in  their  infant  games.  Teach  them  the  laws 
of  the  Commune;  show  them  the  reason  why  we, 

the  upholders  of  the  Constitution "  his  swinging 

gesture  included  the  narrow  array  of  his  partisans, 
and  barred  out,  by  the  same  audacious  movement, 
the  crowd,  dense  and  silent,  on  the  left,  "why  we, 
upholders  of  the  Constitution,  have  triumphed 
over  our  enemies,  even  in  the  face  of  despair !" 

Channing  found  himself  wondering  dully  how  soon 
the  crash  would  come.  Only  the  habit  of  reverence 
to  Pere  Cabet  could  stave  off  an  outbreak ;  only  their 
pity  for  his  blindness  could  quell  the  storm. 

He  glanced  at  Petit  Clef;  the  child  sat  rigid  and 
pale,  thrilled  with  the  pulse  of  approaching  crisis. 
He  looked  down  at  Diane :  beneath  the  airy  wreathing 
of  her  bonnet,  her  face  was  an  ashen  oval :  her  eyes 
shone  wide  and  dark.  Yet  there  was  no  shame  in 
those  clear  depths;  only  a  great  wonder,  perhaps  a 
thought  of  dread.  She  had  not  comprehended  it 
all — not  yet. 

"Pere  Cabet!     I  ask  the  privilege  of  the  floor!" 

The  audience  turned  eagerly  to  face  the  speaker. 
He  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  majority;  he  was  a 
middle-aged  man,  gray  and  bent ;  his  serious  peasant 
face  was  full  of  mild  reproach.  Channing  felt  the 
tremour  of  relief  which  swept  the  audience.  Here 
stood  a  champion,  humble,  yet  strong,  who  might 
regain  for  them  their  honour,  without  blow  or 
bitterness. 

"Pere  Cabet,  I  desire  to  make  request  of  you. 


204  Diane 

I  speak  for  those  about  me."  There  was  a  flutter 
of  assent.  "We  ask  that  a  change  be  made  in  the 
government  of  our  children.  We  wish  that  they 
shall  remain  at  home  with  us  at  all  times,  save  those 
hours  when  they  recite  at  the  Phalanstery.  In  that 
way,  those  who  must  now  spend  their  whole  time 
with  the  children  can  go  to  the  fields,  where  they 
are  sorely  needed." 

The  sane,  commonplace  words  cleared  the  room 
like  a  wave  of  rain-swept  air.  Strained  faces  re 
laxed  ;  a  buzz  of  eager  comment  filled  the  room. 

"Pere  Cabet!" 

Valentin  Saugier,  a  devoted  partisan,  arose  on 
the  opposite  side.  "  I  desire  to  support  the  word  of 
Citizen  Prev6t.  The  children  do  but  ill  in  their 
studies,  when  they  are  so  much  together.  It 
would  be  well  that  they  remain  each  with  their 
parents,  as  he  has  said.  They  will  not  study ;  they 
spend  their  time  in  quarrels,  in  imitating  the  strife 
— in  imitating  the  arguments  of  the  Council.  Save 
at  the  hour  of  recitation,  they  are  better  apart." 

The  partisan  faction  nodded  praises  to  Saugier 
as  he  sat  down,  hotly  embarrassed.  The  desire  for 
harmony  was  supreme;  not  a  man  in  the  hall  who 
was  not  frankly  grateful  to  the  two  speakers  for 
bringing  up  an  issue  on  which  both  factions  could 
agree,  thus  making  it  possible  for  the  meeting  to 
close  in  peace  and  order.  But  Pere  Cabet  was  as 
one  whom  the  gods  would  destroy. 

"So  you,  Prevot,"  he  measured  the  speaker  with 


Rough  "Water  20$ 

narrowing  eyes  of  scorn,  "So  you,  Prev6t,  would 
dare  to  rise  in  Council  and  question  our  most  wise 
and  benevolent  Law !  So  you,  Saugier,  once 
disciple,  now  Judas,  you  would  take  the  side  of  one 
who  has  defied  me,  your  leader !  Are  you  a  fair 
example  of  these,  the  men  who  have  called  them 
selves  my  friends?  Is  it  not  enough  that  we  have 
bowed  ourselves  before  our  enemies,  by  granting 
their  plea  for  goods  and  land?  Is  it  not  enough 
that  they  have  forced  us,  by  might  of  numbers, 
to  yield  to  an  unjust  Compromise,  to  grant 
them  unlawful  powers " 

Channing  gripped  Petit  Clef  to  his  shoulder; 
Diane's  ringers  tightened  on  his  free  arm.  The 
audience  rose  at  Pere  Cabet,  one  wave  of  fury. 
The  majority  clamoured  fiercely  for  a  hearing,  for 
justice;  their  faces  flamed  as  though  his  words  had 
carried  a  fleshly  sting.  His  partisans  shouted 
eager  protests  of  devotion;  their  voices  mingled 
in  torrential  uproar.  Pere  Cabet  struggled  vainly 
against  the  flood.  His  gestures,  his  sonorous  pleas, 
sank  futile  beneath  the  storm.  He  had  evoked ;  he 
could  not  quell. 

"  Let  me  go  to  him !    Mon  Pere  Cabet ! " 

Channing  pushed  her  gently  back.  They  stood 
together,  hemmed  in  by  the  crowd;  they  must 
remain  and  hear ;  there  was  no  escape.  Had  it  not 
been  for  the  child  in  his  arms,  Channing  might  have 
thrust  a  way  free  for  her. 

Pere  Cabet 's  voice  pierced  for  an  instant  above 


206  Diane 

the  din.  An  insolent  laugh  answered  him  from  the 
left;  a  cry  of  rage  from  his  partisans  drowned  the 
laughter.  Channing  thrust  Petit  Clef  behind  him 
and  set  his  shoulder  to  the  crowd.  In  another 
moment  there  would  be  bloodshed. 

"Monsieur    Channing!     Vive    rAm6ricain!" 

Channing 's  height  had  caught  the  eye  of  a  vocifer 
ous  orator  across  the  hall.  A  moment's  hush 
followed  the  shout  of  recognition.  The  daring  cry 
rose  again.  "Vive  1'Amerique  !  You,  M'sieu  Chan 
ning,  you  who  are  always  calm,  speak  for  us !  Be 
our  mediator!" 

The  call  was  taken  up  by  every  throat ;  it  surged 
over  him,  a  deafening  wave.  "Be  our  mediator! 
Give  us  justice!  Vive  rAm6ricain!" 

Channing  was  seized  and  lifted  upon  a  bench.  He 
felt  the  audience  veer  to  his  hand  like  a  turning 
boat;  a  fantastic  terror  curdled  his  pulses.  What 
could  he  do?  What  could  he  say  to  these  strange 
people,  fired  by  a  passion  which  he,  alien  in  blood 
and  in  thought,  could  neither  understand  nor 
blame  ?  He  caught  Diane's  uplifted  eyes ;  he  raised 
his  hand  and  spoke. 

"I  have  no  right  to  talk  to  you,  my  friends. 
Pere  Cabet  still  has  the  floor." 

"He  will  not  yield  us  justice!" 

"He  reproaches  us — us  who  have  upheld  him!" 

"He  has  forfeited  his  right  to  speak.  Put  the 
question,  M'sieu.  Let  us  vote,  then  go  in  peace!" 

Channing  glanced  up  the  hall  at  the  old  man 


Rough  "Water  207 

standing  forsaken  upon  his  stage.  "It's  his  priv 
ilege.  If  you're  so  anxious  to  receive  justice,  why 
can't  you  give  it?" 

"Put  our  case  to  the  Pere  Cabet I"  rang  the  voice 
which  had  first  called  him  to  the  front.  "Remind 
him  that  we,  the  majority,  count  three  times  the 
number  of  his  followers.  Tell  him  that  we  have 
compromised  where  we  had  a  legal  right  to  seize  all. 
Tell  him  that  we  permitted  him  to  hold  privileges 
which  no  law  gives  him,  because  he  is  old — because 
he  delights  in  them.  Tell  him  that  we  have  borne 
all  that  we  will  bear.  We  have  taken  him  as  our 
president.  Let  him  rule  himself  accordingly.  Let 
him  remember  !  He  is  President — he  is  not  dictator  ! ' ' 

"  Listen,  M'sieu  le  Capitaine  ! "  It  was  a  woman's 
voice  now,  high  and  sweet.  The  little  marquise 
stood  on  a  bench,  leaning  against  her  grandson's 
shoulder.  She  dipped  daintily  as  Channing  looked 
her  way;  she  was  composed  as  a  Watteau  figurine. 
"  Tell  him  for  us,  the  mothers  of  the  Commune,  that 
he  cannot  supplant  blood  with  law;  that  he  may 
beguile  our  minds;  he  cannot  cheat  our  hearts. 
Truly,  let  him  remember !  He  may  be  President — 
he  is  not  God!" 

Cabet  reeled  forward.  "  Speak  to  them,  M'sieu ! " 
he  groaned.  "Tell  them  that  I  have  done  none  of 
these  things !  Tell  them  your  true  belief !  Show 
them  wherein  they  are  wrong !" 

Channing  caught  his  breath.  The  thoughts  which 
had  sprung  unbidden  whenever  the  Commune  and 


208  Diane 

its  laws  came  to  mind  fought  now  for  utterance. 
They  spoke  themselves;  his  voice  was  hardly 
audible,  yet  the  words  broke  from  his  lips,  piercing, 
impassioned. 

"The  trouble  is,  you  can't  be  human  and  live 
this  way.  It  isn't  your  fault ;  neither  is  Pere  Cabet 
to  blame.  You've  made  a  beautiful  System,  with 
laws  that  are  fitted  for  angels,  not  for  men;  you've 
drawn  neat  little  plans  for  life,  but  you  haven't 
left  room  for  the  big  instincts.  You  forgot  that 
you'd  probably  love  your  own  children  better  than 
the  others ;  you  forgot  that  you  might  want  to  work 
harder  and  make  a  better  house  for  your  wife  than 
the  one  allotted  to  you.  You  forgot  that  you 
might  come  to  hate  the  kind  of  work  given  out  to 
you,  and  be  wretched  because  you  couldn't  change 
to  something  else.  You  didn't  know  what  sort 
of  a  country  you  were  coming  to — a  country  where 
each  one  must  strike  out  for  himself,  or  sink.  You 
tied  yourselves  together  and  in  doing  that  you  tied 
yourselves  down.  A  man  has  to  work  out  his  own 
salvation.  You  can't  do  it  for  each  other. 

"You're  dissatisfied,  so  you  turn  and  strike  at 
Pere  Cabet,  because  he's  the  leader.  I'm  the  last 
man  in  the  world  to  say  that  either  side  is  in  the 
wrong;  the  trouble  lies  in  your  trying  to  live  un 
naturally.  You're  bound  to  chafe  under  the  yoke 
of  it,  the  best  you  can  do.  You  can't  blame  one 
man;  you  can't  blame  the  Commune;  it's  the  fault 
of  the  System.  And  as  long  as  you  maintain  this 


Rough  "Water  209 

unnatural  law,  this  struggle  for  equality,  when  you 
know  that  men  never  were  equal  and  never  will 
be — just  so  long  will  you  suffer." 

He  stopped.     The  hall  was  perilously  still. 

Pere  Cabet  reeled  from  the  platform  and  stumbled 
down  the  aisle.  He  took  Diane's  hand;  he  would 
have  snatched  Petit  Clef  away,  but  the  child  clung 
obstinately  to  Channing's  neck.  "  So  you  also 
would  stab  me,  M'sieu  !  You,  whom  I  have  trusted ! 
You  would  destroy  the  one  hope  which  is  yet 
mine — the  faith  of  my  people  !" 

Channing  heard  him  patiently.  It  did  not  come 
to  him  at  once  what  he  had  done. 

"I  knew  you  were  an  enemy,  M'sieu."  Diane's 
whisper  hurt  like  a  turning  knife.  "  Yet  I  thought 
not  that  when  we  lay  at  your  mercy,  you  would 
utterly  destroy." 

Her  trailing  skirts  brushed  his  knee  as  she  walked 
away,  clinging  to  Pere  Cabet 's  arm.  The  people 
made  way  for  them  in  silence.  They  made  way, 
too,  for  Channing,  who  staggered,  white  and  staring, 
down  the  long,  whispering  lane.  The  child  still 
hung  to  his  neck  when  he  reached  the  river  bank 
and  stooped  to  cast  the  Celandine  loose. 

"Good-bye,  M'sieu  le  Capitaine.  It  will  be  a 
long  day  till  you  return." 

Channing  understood.     He  stood  up  to  push  off. 

"You  have  committed  the  sin  inexpiable.  The 
Pere  Cabet  cannot  forgive  you.  Mademoiselle  will 
not.  Her  anger  will  be  a  thing  of  duty." 


2io  Diane 

Channing  cast  off  the  skiff.  It  came  to  him  with 
a  dull  pang  that  the  child  might  have  spared  him 
these  pin  pricks.  Under  a  stern  impulse,  he  had 
spoken  cruel  truths.  Yet  he  had  not  dreamed  that 
they  would  grieve;  they  had  said  themselves,  these 
mighty  convictions,  strong  past  his  curbing.  He 
would  pay  for  his  words.  He  was  already  paying. 
It  was  not  necessary  to  add  to  his  stripes. 

"  For  myself,  however,  I  am  a  believer  in  miracles." 
The  child's  clear  voice  floated  out  to  him  as  he  slid 
away  into  deep  water.  "  Farewell,  and  good  for 
tune,  M'sieu.  A  miracle  may  be  performed  against 
your  return — if  you  do  not  return  too  soon.  In 
the  meantime — Adieu  !  And  a  good  journey ! " 


CHAPTER  XIV 
THE  HOUR  BEFORE  THE  DAWN 

THE  river  was  a  witchery  of  dreaming  shadow 
and  silver  light.  Shoreward  the  mist -dimmed  shal 
lows  lay  black  as  enchanted  wells ;  but  each  star 
ray  lit  arrowy  flaws  down  the  rippling  channel,  and 
braided  dim  willow  and  tossing  stream  into  a  mesh 
of  shimmer  and  gloom.  Friend  Barclay  guided  his 
boat  cautiously  past  rock  and  bar  till  she  sidled 
against  the  steamer's  bow.  Then  he  stood  up  in 
the  darkness,  calling  softly: 

"Robert!     Oh,  Robert!" 

"  That  you,  Friend  Barclay  ? "  The  Major's  heavy 
step  grated  across  the  deck.  "  Bob  went  up  to  the 
Commune  this  afternoon,  and  hasn't  got  back  yet. 
Come  aboard,  won't  you?  It's  late  to  be  out  on 
the  water,  these  aguish  nights." 

"  Thank  thee,  I  believe  I'll  row  on  up  and  meet 
Robert.  It  will  be  on  my  way  home,  and  I'm 
anxious  to  return  thither.  I  have  been  away  all 
week,  at  Yearly  Meeting.  Robert  is  well,  of 
course?" 

The  Major  flung  his  cigar  away  and  leaned  out 
over  the  rail.  "No,  he's  not.  I'm  worried  about 
that  boy."  His  voice  took  on  a  hoarse,  anxious 

211 


212  Diane 

note.  "  I  wish  you'd  take  hold  of  him  and  give  him 
Hail  Columbia  for  the  way  he's  been  overworking. 
He  won't  listen  to  me.  He  slaves  night  and  day; 
caught  him  working  on  his  specifications  for  that 
new  cut  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  Tuesday. 

And  another  thing "  he  leaned  closer  and  spoke 

under  his  breath — "I  don't  like  his  going  to  the 
Commune  so  much,  Barclay.  It  won't  do,  I  tell 
you ;  it  won't  do  at  all !  Young  men  are  getting 
their  heads  full  of  fool  notions  nowadays.  I've 
talked  to  old  Cabet  myself,  and  I'll  allow  it  all 
sounds  very  fine.  But  you  know,  and  I  know,  that 
kind  of  thing  won't  work.  It's  attractive,  though; 
and  here's  Bob,  all  on  tip-toe  to  run  into  just  such 
a  trap,  and  his  father  a  Brook  Farmer  before  him — 
one  of  those  crack-brained  enthusiasts " 

"Thee  needn't  worry  about  Robert's  taking  up 
with  the  Commune.  He  hasn't  a  particle  of  faith 
in  its  plans.  He's  vexed  Friend  Cabet  time  and 
again  with  his  plain  speaking." 

"Well,  there's  something  wrong,  anyway.  The 
boy  is  working  himself  sick  by  day  and  brooding 
himself  sick  by  night.  Get  it  out  of  him,  if  you 
can.  He  has  more  confidence  in  you  than  in  me, 
any  day." 

"I'll  try  to  be  of  aid  to  him,  if  I  can.  Good 
night." 

He  paddled  slowly  away.  He  did  not  try  to 
watch  for  Channing's  boat.  In  that  glancing  blur 
the  keenest  sight  would  have  been  unavailing. 


The  Hour  Before  the  Dawn  213 

Near  at  hand  the  river  was  a  sheet  of  dark  glass ;  it 
shattered  into  diamond  sparkles  beneath  the  dipping 
oar;  it  gloomed  in  illusive  shadow  where  a  floating 
branch,  a  derelict  plank,  tricked  the  eye  into  belief 
of  voyagers.  For  many  feet  from  either  shore 
the  dusk  seemed  to  project  outward,  like  a  dim 
roof — the  very  eaves  of  night. 

Friend  Barclay  put  his  boat  into  mid-channel. 
The  swift  current  tugged  mightily  against  the  oars; 
it  took  hard  pulling  to  make  headway.  He  could 
do  little  more  than  hold  his  own  against  it.  From 
time  to  time  he  checked  his  stroke,  and  called; 
now  and  then  he  whistled  a  slow,  intermittent 
trill.  One  who  could  not  see  would  have  thought  it 
the  sleepy  call  of  a  half -awakened  bird,  deep  in  the 
willow  brush. 

At  last  there  echoed  an  answering  note.  Friend 
Barclay  put  his  boat  about;  there  loomed  a  dusky 
blot,  dark  on  the  darker  water,  across  near  the 
Illinois  shore.  It  approached  steadily;  it  took  on 
swift,  familiar  form.  In  a  moment,  the  two  boats 
rocked  softly  side  by  side,  and  the  men  were  shaking 
hands. 

"You  wanted  me,  Friend  Barclay?" 

"I've  just  come  from  the  steamer.  No,  I  came 
only  to  bring  thee  a  message.  A  letter  reached  me 
this  morning  from  our  friends  in  Kansas.  It  has 
been  on  the  way  for  five  weeks,  delayed  by 
fear  of  raiders,  I  dare  say.  There  is  an  enclosure 
for  thee." 


214  Diane 

Channing  opened  the  sheet  and  peered  at  the 
fine,  distinct  characters.  In  that  faint  starlight,  he 
could  not  read  the  page;  yet  the  meaning  leaped 
out  to  him.  From  the  curt  beginning  to  the 
brusque  angular  signature,  the  summons  flared  as 
in  lines  of  fire. 

Friend  Barclay  leaned  on  his  oar  and  looked  in 
tently  at  the  younger  man.  In  these  few  days,  his 
face  had  changed  mysteriously,  he  thought.  To  be 
sure,  the  bleaching  moonlight  might  be  answerable 
for  his  strange  new  pallor;  but  the  change  was  not 
one  of  colour  alone.  The  straight  lips  had  hardened ; 
the  eyes  were  sunken  and  dark.  His  look  betrayed 
neither  interest  nor  weariness ;  only  a  bleak  dulness , 
a  chilling  quiet.  Friend  Barclay  felt  oddly  that  in 
this  short  week  something  of  the  boy  had  slipped 
away — lost  for  all  time  to  come;  the  morning  joy 
that  had  lighted  his  eyes  and  had  rung  in  his  laughter ; 
the  hope,  the  noble  trust,  the  courage — Ah,  no ! 
Not  that ! 

He  turned  in  his  seat  with  a  sigh.  Channing 
looked  up. 

"No,  I'm  in  no  hurry  for  thee  to  finish.  I  was 
wondering  what  thee'd  say.  Friend  John  had 
written  me  what  he  intended  to  ask  of  thee." 

Channing  folded  the  letter.  "  I  can't  decide  yet. 
I'll  talk  of  it  with  you  to-morrow." 

"Thee's  tired.  The  matter  may  well  rest  till 
another  time.  Faulkner  tells  me  thee  went  up  to 
the  Commune  to-day.  Is  it  well  with  them?" 


The  Hour  Before  the  Dawn  215 

"No.  There  was  some  trouble  a  week  or  so  ago 
at  their  Council.  That  isn't  patched  up  yet.  I 
was  to  blame  for  most  of  it.  They  called  on  me  to 
speak,  and  I  did ;  I  tried  to  smooth  things  over,  but 
I  only  made  it  worse.  To-day  I  went  up  again,  to 
try  and  explain  to  Pere  Cabet." 

"Did  thee  succeed?" 

"  I  didn't  see  any  one  but  Petit  Clef." 

"  I  understand.  Does  thee  think  it  can  hold 
together  much  longer?" 

"I'm  afraid  not." 

"I  said  as  much  to  Etienne  Cabet  a  fortnight 
since,"  mused  Friend  Barclay.  "I  came  out  with 
it  plumply;  in  case  of  a  revolt,  what  would  he  do 
for  Diane?  He  answered  me  that  no  such  danger 
threatened;  that  the  spirit  of  the  people  was  again 
most  harmonious.  But  he  added  that  he  has 
decided  to  send  Diane  to  France  next  month,  with 
thy  cousin's  friends,  if  possible.  He  has  decided 
that  the  Commune  is  no  place  for  her.  As  he 
says,  'She  cannot  be  happy  here,  surrounded  by 
those  who  are  so  far  beneath  her  in  station.  If  she 
returns  to  Paris,  she  will  take  her  proper  rank/ 
I  was  tempted  to  ask  him  why  she  was  not  as  well 
off  here,  since  he,  by  his  omnipotence,  has  placed 
all  creatures  on  the  same  level.  But  it  would  ill 
become  me  to  bandy  words.  I  can  see  that  he  de 
sires  to  make  her  safe  and  happy;  from  what  he 
went  on  to  say,  I  judged  that  she  will  receive  every 
care  and  every  luxury  from  the  friends  to  whom  she 


2i6  Diane 

will  go.  It  would  have  been  better  had  he  allowed 
her  to  remain  with  them  all  the  way  through." 

Channing  listened,  quietly.  Friend  Barclay's 
words  were  severing  the  last  cords  which  anchored 
him  here.  He  saw  himself  cast  adrift ;  he  felt  him 
self  yielding  to  the  mighty  sweep  of  the  current 
which  had  risen  about  him,  inch  by  inch,  these 
last  weeks.  His  hand  shut  hard  over  the  folded 
letter. 

"We'd  as  well  go  ashore,  Friend  Barclay.  But 
I'll  say  now  that  I  think  I'll  go  West,  as  soon  as  I 
can  send  in  my  papers  and  get  my  resignation 
through.  I  can't  keep  my  hands  out  of  the 
work;  and  I  can't  stand  it  to  stay  in  Govern 
ment  service  while  I  am  deliberately  breaking  a 
law.  It's  the  old  riddle.  There's  only  one  way  to 
solve  it." 

"Thee's  right,  Robert.  But — thee's  not  deciding 
too  hastily?  Thee  has  considered  everything?" 

"  There  is  not  much  left  to  consider."  Channing's 
oars  flashed  silver  as  the  Celandine  backed 
away.  "We'll  talk  more  of  it  to-morrow.  Good 
night." 

He  sat  through  the  night  in  his  state-room,  the 
letter  laid  open  before  him.  Its  stern  command 
pulsed  through  his  heart  like  the  call  of  rallying 
bugles.  If  through  its  solemn  peal  there  jarred  a 
note  of  fanatic  passion,  he  could  not  hear.  The 
thunder  of  its  exalted  plea,  the  cry  for  a  free  country, 
drowned  every  other  cadence  to  his  ears. 


The  Hour  Before  the  Dawn  217 

"LAWRENCE  POST-OFFICE, 

Territory  of  Kanzas, 
April  28,  1856. 

"ROBERT  CHANNING. 

"Sir:  The  territory  of  Kanzas  is  in  bitter  Straits. 
I  told  you  a  month  since  of  the  burdens  under  which  we 
labour  in  our  effort  to  make  it  a  free  State.  We  are 
now  in  still  worse  case,  for  the  ice  has  gone  out,  and  the 
river  permits  passage  to  invading  mobs  from  the  South. 
Free-State  settlers  and  their  families  are  daily  menaced 
by  these  Pro-slavery  Bands.  These  Companies  are 
made  up  of  the  Scum  and  Offscouring  of  the  Nation. 
To  our  shame,  many  Northern  men  have  joined  them, 
for  the  sake  of  plunder.  They  come  from  Mo. ,  Kentucky, 
and  even  Georgia.  They  cross  the  Mo.  River  in  armed 
bands,  pillage  farms,  strip  the  small  Towns,  and  drive 
out  all  citizens  who  are  known  to  be  Free-State  men. 
They  seize  the  Polls  when  elections  are  to  be  held,  and 
cast  their  own  votes  for  slavery,  although  they  have 
not  the  Shadow  of  right  so  to  do,  for  they  are  not  citizens, 
nor  even  property-holders  in  the  Territory.  They  often 
force  the  judges,  at  the  point  of  the  revolver,  to  report 
the  election  falsely.  Such  men  as  dare  cast  an  anti- 
slavery  vote  in  their  presence  do  so  at  their  lives'  risk, 
and  are  always  roughly  Handled.  They  end  their  day 
of  Terror  by  looting  the  stores;  or  if  their  numbers 
do  not  admit  of  this,  they  burn  farmhouses  and 
run  off  cattle.  In  our  neighbourhood  there  are  but 
two  horses  left  out  of  200  head,  and  that  because  of 
their  ill  Condition.  Of  my  own  family,  my  eldest  Son 
has  twice  seen  his  Cabin  in  Ashes,  and  his  family 
driven  to  the  woods.  My  house  was  burnt  the  night 


2i8  Diane 

before    I    got    home,  but    I  am   having   good   success 
rebuilding. 

"I  am  promised  aid  of  money  and  Arms  from  the 
Emigrant  Aid  Ass'n;  and  a  large  body  of  Free-State 
settlers,  from  Maine  and  Vermont,  well  armed,  are  on 
the  way:  but  the  Mo.  river  is  now  patrolled  by  Pro- 
Slavery  men,  and  it  is  thus  closed  to  Free-State  passing. 
All  men  and  supplies  must  come  by  waggon  from  Iowa 
City,  where  the  railroad  ends.  This  is  a  hard  journey 
of  600  miles. 

"I  need  men  more  than  guns.  I  ask  you  to  come 
and  help  me  in  this  work.  It  is  not  of  necessity  a  work 
of  Bloodshed.  My  plan  is  to  form  an  armed  Force 
large  enough  to  discourage  these  Marauders  from  trying 
any  more  attacks.  Your  work  will  be  to  meet  the  in 
coming  waggon  trains  some  miles  E.  of  the  Kansas 
boundary,  and  to  protect  them  until  they  reach  the 
point  where  they  intend  to  settle.  You  will  have  a 
force  of  six  to  ten  men  under  you.  We  cannot  spare 
more.  You  will  find  letters  and  maps  at  the  office  of  J. 
Steele,  in  Iowa  City. 

"It  will  be  hard  work.  The  danger  is  always 
great.  There  is  no  other  way  to  win  freedom  for 
Kanzas.  Freedom  for  Kanzas  will  mean  freedom  for 
the  Nation. 

"You  may  think  that  we  cannot  muster  men 
enough.  Remember  that  a  few  men,  in  the  right, 
and  knowing  they  are  right,  can  overturn  a  mighty 
city.  For  God  has  given  the  strength  of  the  hills  to 
freedom. 

"Your    Friend, 

JOHN  BROWN." 


The  Hour  Before  the  Dawn  219 

Across  the  back  ran  a  single  line,  still  in  small, 
clear  characters.  The  plea  of  the  letter  crystallised 
in  those  ten  potent  words : 

"  Remember  those  that  are  in  bonds  as  bound  with 
them." 

Channing  folded  the  letter  and  put  it  carefully 
away.  He  stepped  through  his  narrow  doorway  to 
the  deck.  The  world  was  one  great  darkness;  only 
a  few  stars  flickered,  high  and  clear.  He  swung 
himself  into  the  Celandine  and  pushed  away  up  the 
river.  Not  knowing  where  he  went,  he  was  turning 
to  the  one  place  of  comfort  that  he  knew. 

The  water  hissed  softly  beneath  the  boat;  faint 
coruscations  shone  from  the  ruffled  surface,  as  though 
his  oar  caught  and  lifted  light  from  the  depths  below. 
It  was  lighter,  he  knew,  on  the  water  than  ashore; 
yet  the  darkness  seemed  to  creep  and  cling  about 
him,  a  soft,  enfolding  dread.  There  was  no  wind; 
there  rose  from  time  to  time  a  long,  cool  sigh,  that 
set  the  willows  whispering;  the  deep  breath  of  the 
river,  dank  and  heavy-sweet.  Channing  inhaled  it 
with  an  effort.  It  seemed  as  though  the  black  air 
caught  in  his  throat.  The  darkness  was  not  night 
to  the  vision  alone;  one  felt,  one  heard,  the  vast, 
unfathomable  gloom. 

The  air  stirred  lightly;  an  inquiring  bird-note 
fluted  from  the  Island  thickets.  The  darkness 
seemed  to  melt,  slowly;  through  the  dissolving 
murk  one  caught  dim  monstrous  outlines,  phantom 
vistas.  Gray  mist  fleeces  piled  along  the  mounded 


220  Diane 

shore.  The  water  purred  along  the  bow,  lapping 
chill  drops  against  his  hand ;  all  the  sedges  shivered 
under  the  light,  cold  wind  of  dawn. 

The  breeze  rose  steadily.  It  stripped  the  fog 
from  the  river;  broad  patches  shone  out,  hard  and 
gray,  a  river  of  steel  beneath  the  steely  sky.  The 
vapour  rolled  to  left  and  right  in  vast,  dim  wind 
rows,  obedient  to  some  mysterious  current;  he 
rowed  between  their  opalescent  billows  as  through 
rent,  streaming  curtains  of  film.  The  stars  were 
paling  now;  the  sky  shifted  from  steel  to  ashen 
gray,  from  gray  to  silver.  Long,  trembling  flashes 
glanced  away  down  the  river  in  the  wake  of  the 
fleeting  wind.  The  world  grew  very  still. 

High  on  the  farthest  slope  his  eye  found  that  which 
it  sought — a  huddle  of  squat  white  houses,  tumbled 
like  toy  blocks  about  the  broad,  low  block  of  the 
Phalanstery.  To  the  right  soared  the  Great 
Temple.  Its  mighty  walls  gaped  broken  and  de 
spoiled;  the  massive  blocks,  quarried  and  fitted 
with  painful,  reverent  labour,  had  been  torn  away 
to  fulfil  their  service  in  other  buildings.  The 
facade  alone  sprang  unmarred,  an  incredible  tower 
ing  bulk.  Its  clumsy  pillars,  its  vast  uncouth  arch, 
its  bald,  ungainly  carvings,  all  its  huge  futility, 
seemed  the  work  of  a  race  long  dead;  a  race 
of  giants;  this  hulking  ruin  the  one  relic  of 
their  childish  imagery,  their  measureless  strength. 
And  it  appealed.  Its  blank  window-spaces  were 
as  blind  patient  eyes,  waiting ;  a  rent  mask,  spurned, 


The  Hour  Before  the  Dawn  221 

dishonoured,  yet  royal  in  failure,  it  lay  and  crumbled 
to  its  doom. 

Channing  grounded  his  boat  in  the  shallows  of 
Sundered  Island.  He  leaned  on  his  oar,  his  eyes 
still  searching  the  eastern  hills;  in  the  darkness  of 
his  own  night,  he  had  no  care  for  the  miracle  of  the 
awakening  world.  Somewhere  in  one  of  those 
squat  white  houses  she  slept — the  woman  of  his 
worship,  the  princess  of  his  dream.  His  love  was  no 
more  the  easy  tenderness  for  her  beauty,  her  inno 
cence,  her  youth.  It  tortured  him  with  sore 
longing;  it  cried  aloud  in  his  heart.  Her  face  swam 
before  his  aching  eyes ;  he  could  see  the  veined  lids, 
the  parted  downward  sweep  of  crisp  bronze  curls 
above  the  starry  forehead,  the  oval  cheek,  the 
most  lovely  mouth.  He  watched  her  stoop,  both 
hands  outstretched,  to  coax  Petit  Clef ;  he  watched 
her  as  she  stepped  from  his  boat,  gathering  the 
soft,  long  flow  of  silken  skirts  from  her  little  feet, 
then  turn  to  wait  for  him — to  wait  for  him !  He 
saw  the  slow  flush  burn  to  her  throat  while  he 
laughed  with  her  at  the  Phalanstery  door;  and  he 
saw  the  blue  eyes  darken,  the  dear  lips  pale,  as 
she  turned  on  him  when  he  would  have  aided  her, 
to  whisper  that  merciless  sentence;  that  reproach 
which  would  echo  in  his  heart  forever. 

He  had  thought  to  do  his  best  to  save  a  perilous 
moment.  He  had  done  his  worst,  instead.  His 
clumsy  toil  had  only  widened  the  breach.  He  had 
stabbed  where  he  would  have  healed.  And  he  had 


222  Diane 

hurt  her,  he  had  grieved  her  beyond  the  wish,  beyond 
the  power,  to  forgive.  His  pleading  letters  had 
come  back  to  him,  their  seals  unbroken.  He  had 
begged  to  see  her;  one  moment's  speech  with  her, 
he  believed,  might  win  his  pardon.  She  would  not 
let  him  come.  He  found  himself  breathing  her 
name  over  and  over,  as  it  might  have  been  an  Ave 
for  his  transgression.  " Diane!  Diane!" 

With  his  love  was  always  mingled  the  father 
instinct,  the  yearning  to  protect.  Now  it  im 
plored  him  above  the  plea  of  the  lover's  passion. 
She  was  so  solitary,  so  uncared  for !  The  colonists 
might  admire,  but  their  jealousy  blighted  every 
kindlier  feeling.  To  Pere  Cabet  alone  was  she  most 
dear;  but  dearer  still  was  the  Institution,  and  it 
drained  his  powers  to  the  lees.  He  was  too  ab 
sorbed  to  notice;  what  could  one  ask  of  this  old 
stricken  man,  staggering  through  his  last  dark 
failure?  How  could  he  leave  her,  alone  and  unde 
fended,  in  her  angel  innocence,  to  face  this  certain 
storm  ? 

Yet  the  call  of  his  promise  rang  through  his 
memory;  that  solemn  message  rose  before  his 
eyes. 

He  strove  to  recall  what  Friend  Barclay  had  said 
of  Diane.  The  words  came  back  slowly.  They 
brought  a  new,  stinging  meaning.  "Pere  Cabet 
would  send  Diane  abroad  with  Rose's  friends." 
"She  would  have  every  care  and  every  luxury.'' 
"In  her  proper  station,"  There  lay  the  sting. 


The  Hour  Before  the  Dawn  223 

What  more  could  he  ask  for  her?  What  more 
could  he  wish  for  his  own  comforting  than  this 
assurance,  this  certainty  that  she  should  be  given 
all  things  which  her  heart  might  desire?  Nothing, 
surely,  unless — that  greatest  right:  the  right  to 
give. 

He  fought  it  out,  inch  by  inch.  At  best,  if  he 
should  burn  this  letter,  if  he  should  take  his  hand 
from  the  plough,  and  stay  in  his  present  work, 
he  could  give  but  little,  compared  to  the  splendours 
which  life  in  her  real  home  would  bring.  With 
him,  her  place  would  be  obscure ;  there,  it  would  be 
lofty.  With  him,  life  would  be — must  be — harsh 
and  dull.  He  could  not  ask  her  to  share  its  slow 
ascent.  And  what  good  lay  in  all  this  threshing 
of  straw?  She  did  not  love  him.  Her  grave  in 
difference  proved  it ;  her  calm  silences  proclaimed  it. 
Her  soft,  cruel  words  had  thrust  the  truth  into  his 
heart.  He  was  a  fool,  an  upstart,  to  dare  the 
dream.  And  then — the  letter  ? 

The  world  lay  hushed,  a  place  of  waiting;  the 
silence  seemed  to  hang,  breathless,  upon  his  word. 
Far  past  the  hills,  a  slow  flame  burned  and  grew; 
its  radiance  lit  a  courier  cloud;  the  east  blazed 
roseate,  one  trumpet-call  of  flame. 

The  mists  fled,  tattered,  trembling;  the  last  star 
faded,  dim.     The  river  flushed  awake,  an  aureate 
flood.     Trailing  his  cope  of  fire,  calm,  silent,  glorious 
the  pontifical  Day  strode  over  the  crouching  hills' 

Even    through    the    shattered    windows    of    the 


224  Diane 

Temple  shone  the  impelling  light.  He  read  its 
inexorable  message ;  his  soul  bowed  to  its  command. 
Despite  grieved  love,  and  dread,  and  that  fear  of 
shame  which  darkens  the  depths  of  the  bravest, 
peace  came  to  him  with  the  morning.  His  life 
might  be  but  a  shattered  temple — rudely  built, 
unwisely  planned;  yet  if  the  healing  light  could 
shine  through  his  poor  days,  how  dared  he  mourn 
the  wreck  of  the  toy  hopes  which  he  had  dared  to 
dream  ? 

He  rowed  home  silently,  with  scarce  a  flicker 
of  oars  on  the  mist -sheeted  water.  It  was  as  though 
he  passed  with  hushed  step  through  a  shrine. 


CHAPTER  XV 
BROK  EN    CAB  LES 

"You  don't  understand  me,  Major?" 

The  Major  sat  forward,  heavily.  His  hands 
locked  and  unlocked  across  his  knees;  the  colour 
dropped  slowly  from  his  handsome,  ruddy  face. 
Grim  circles  deepened  under  his  haggard  eyes. 
Grim  furrows  etched  themselves  around  his  mouth. 

"I  don't  want  to  understand,  Bob." 

Channing  was  silent,  sick  at  heart. 

"I  don't  want  to  believe  that  my  dead  sister's 
son  could  be  a  traitor.  For  it's  treachery,  nothing 
else.  You  don't  realise  that,  Bob;  you've  been 
duped  and  blinded  by  that  fool,  Wendell  Phillips 
and  that  old  scoundrel,  Brown.  It's  a  beautiful 
theory.  There's  a  lot  of  likely  fellows  that  have 
been  tricked  the  same  way,  centuries  back.  But 
they've  all  gone  down.  You  can't  tamper  with  a 
man's  God-given  rights.  You  can't  defy  a  system 
made  and  approved  by  God  Himself,  and  escape. 
Give  it  up,  Bob.  Stand  by  the  laws  of  your  country. 
Keep  the  honour  of  your  blood." 

"Law  doesn't  make  for  justice  always,  Major. 
A  man  must  listen  to  his  own  judgment." 

'  Judgment ! '     When   you've   been   filling   your 
225 


226  Diane 

ears  with  that  damned  Liberator  drivel!  When 
you've  put  the  whims  of  a  desperado,  a  fanatic, 
above  the  word  of  the  wisest  men  of  your  day !" 

"I've  thought  it  all  over,  Major.  I've  tramped 
the  whole  road — every  step  of  the  way.  The 
Fugitive  Slave  Law  is  wrong;  I  shall  not  obey  it. 
Slavery  itself  is  wrong.  I  can't  help  to  destroy 
it  now,  but  the  time  is  coming  when  I  shall.  But  I 
can  fight  to  keep  it  out  of  free  territory.  Yes,  I 
know.  It's  treachery  in  your  eyes;  in  mine,  it's 
the  one  honest  way.  I  wrote  two  weeks  ago,  and 
sent  in  my  resignation  to  the  Department;  the 
acceptance  came  yesterday.  I  leave  for  Kansas 
to-day." 

"  Bob,  you're  mad !  You're  throwing  away  every 
business  chance  you'll  ever  have.  You're  putting 
yourself  on  the  level  of  a  common  criminal.  You're 
ruining  your  whole  life.  I  can't  have  it  so.  You 
and  Rose  are  all  I've  got  left  in  the  world.  And 
you  so  like  your  mother,  I  used  to  feel  you  all 
but  took  her  place  for  me !  I'd  rather  see  you  dead 
than  this !  Judith's  boy !  And  she  the  bravest 
little  noble  soul !  Judith's  boy  !" 

Channing  stared  down  at  the  bowed  gray  head. 
So  stared  the  victim  at  his  torturer,  as  the  slow 
rack  tightened  on  the  writhing  flesh. 

"If  I  mean  all  that  to  you,  Major,  then  you 
know  what  it  means  for  me  to  give  you  up — 
and  Rose."  A  dull  white  line  had  settled  around 
his  mouth;  his  breath  came  in  gasps.  "You've 


Broken  Cables  227 

been  home  and  friends  and  father  and  mother.  But 
I've  got  to  go  my  own  road.  You  believe  I'm 
dishonourable.  Perhaps.  I'm  taking  the  only  course 
my  conscience  permits.  I  thought  with  you,  till 
I  came  out  here.  Then  I  began  to  see  things,  and 
— I  knew.  There's  no  use  in  arguing,  Major.  Let 
me  go.  And — good-bye.'1 

The  Major  towered,  shaking.  He  struck  down 
Channing's  offered  hand.  Grief  and  anger  struggled 
in  his  drawn,  anguished  face.  "Go,  then!"  he 
burst  out,  trembling.  "  I've  trusted  you,  I've 
depended  on  you,  I've  made  you  my  son.  I  might 
have  known  better.  It's  in  the  blood !  You  had 
Judith,  my  Judith,  for  a  mother.  But  what  a 
father !  That  damned  Yankee  abolitionist,  that 
canting  thief " 

Channing  held  himself  as  in  a  leash  of  steel. 

"  I  needn't  have  expected  anything  else.  I  was 
an  old  fool.  But  I  comforted  myself  with  you,  I 
hoped — go  on,  then !  Trample  your  country's 
laws,  break  her  commandments.  And  never  dare 
claim  me  as  yours  again.  Keep  your  hands  off  me, 
sir.  Go!" 

Channing  blundered  out  of  the  cabin. 

All  June  mocked  him  as  he  crossed  the  deck. 
The  river  flashed  in  high  sunlight;  every  bend  and 
island  flaunted  gold  and  green.  The  Celandine 
tossed  softly  alongside,  her  fine  lines  blinding  white 
and  gold  in  the  vivid  light.  He  let  himself  down 
awkwardly  into  the  boat,  and  rowed  ashore 


228  Diane 

Winnie,  his  blooded  mare,  stood  tied  on  the  bank, 
already  saddled  for  the  journey.  She  watched  her 
master  with  wide  deer  eyes,  and  whimpered  her  im 
patience  when  the  current  swept  him  again  and 
again  out  of  his  course.  Never  before  had  she 
waited  so  long  for  him  to  make  the  short  row  to 
land.  Her  delicate  ears  flattened  petulantly  when 
at  last  he  beached  the  boat  and  staggered  ashore. 
She  nuzzled  his  shoulder,  murmuring  soft  reproof, 
like  a  petted  child,  then  tossed  her  head  away  with 
a  resentful  snort,  when  her  blandishments  won 
neither  sugar  nor  caresses. 

Channing  stood  looking  dully  at  the  scene  behind. 
Through  these  months  of  sickening  doubt,  he  had 
longed  more  than  once  for  the  time  when  he  should 
turn  his  back  upon  the  boats  forever.  The  very 
sight  of  them  flung  his  disloyalty  in  his  face.  Since 
the  wild  March  dawn  of  his  coming,  the  days  had 
crowded  upon  him,  laden  with  strange  daunting 
cares.  Every  day  had  scored  its  crisis;  every  hour 
had  cast  its  pebble  upon  his  load.  He  stooped 
beneath  the  memory  of  those  weeks  as  though  it 
were  a  bodily  weight.  His  life  before  this  year 
faded  into  mists  of  forgetting,  shadowy,  remote;  a 
lingering  childhood,  rounded  with  machine-made 
duties,  trivial,  sunny,  prettily  ordered.  Through 
this  long,  daunting  spring  he  had  learned  for  the 
first  time  to  read  the  meaning  of  his  Life — its  harsh, 
inexorable  message,  its  renunciations,  its  hopes,  its 
loneliness,  its  vast  unspeakable  despair. 


Broken  Cables  229 

Yet  bitter  as  were  the  associations  of  the  place, 
he  looked  upon  it  now  as  a  man  looks  upon  the 
face  of  his  beloved  dead.  The  little  group  of  boats ; 
the  great  flashing  river,  leaping  in  shatter  of  jewel 
and  foam  across  the  rapids,  dim  and  sweetly  grave 
in  deep,  shoreward  pools ;  the  wreathed  hills  to  the 
west;  the  burning,  blinding  splendour  of  the  sky. 
It  was  all  simple  enough — commonplace,  perhaps; 
unutterably  dear.  He  would  leave  it  behind, 
and  with  it  he  would  abandon  the  torturing  problems 
which  the  months  here  had  thrust  upon  him. 
And,  leaving  it,  he  would  abandon  his  right  to  home 
and  friends;  his  honoured  place  in  the  world;  his 
dreams  of  success  in  the  work  which  was  as  the 
breath  of  his  nostrils.  And  he  would  yield  up  his 
right  to  all  dearer  hope,  besides. 

He  bowed  his  head  upon  the  mare's  arched  neck. 
Winnie  turned  her  head  with  swift,  questioning 
glance,  then  tucked  her  silken  muzzle  against  his 
knee.  Womanlike,  she  forgot  her  own  pique  in 
the  joy  of  giving  comfort. 

Three  miles  up  the  river  he  checked  the  mare  and 
dismounted,  to  shift  the  saddle-bags.  The  road 
ran  through  the  abandoned  quarry  from  which  the 
Temple  blocks  had  been  cut ;  it  was  a  mere  twisting 
bridle-path,  quarried  high  between  river  and  preci 
pice,  powdered  with  glittering  flints,  glaring  white 
beneath  the  noonday  sun.  Winnie  sidled  back 
when  he  attempted  to  remount;  she  put  up  a 
slender  forefoot  with  a  nicker  of  protest.  Channing 


23°  Diane 

looked  at  her  stupidly.  He  put  his  foot  in  the 
stirrup  and  would  have  leaped  into  the  saddle. 
Winnie  reared  wildly,  and  struck  out,  cat -fashion, 
with  all  four  hoofs.  Channing  pitched  backwards 
and  rolled  to  the  very  brink  of  the  ledge,  but  caught 
himself  in  a  low-growing  oak.  He  crept  to  his 
feet,  dizzy  and  bewildered.  What  could  the  cieature 
mean? 

"What's  up,  Winnie?"  He  tried  to  stroke  her, 
but  she  shrank  away.  "Come,  now,  I  wouldn't 
hurt  you " 

"Imbecile!"  The  voice  rang  piercing  clear  from 
the  height  of  the  bluff.  "  Animal !  Cease  torturing 
your  wise  beast.  Remove  the  stone  !" 

It  took  Channing  some  moments  to  recognise  the 
speaker.  He  had  a  curious  sense  of  having  seen 
this  tiny,  blue-clad  form,  this  sparkling  face,  in 
another  world,  dream-distant. 

"Come  down  here,  Petit  Clef.  What  stone? 
Where?" 

"  Sacred  cabbage  !  Does  she  collect  of  the  pebbles 
in  her  eye  or  in  her  ear  ?  In  her  foot,  to  be  sure ! 
Where  else?" 

Petit  Clef  scrambled  recklessly  from  one  sliding 
foothold  to  another  till  he  reached  Channing's 
side.  "  Behold  how  she  lifts  her  foot  and  beseeches 
that  you  relieve  her !  Ah,  the  clever  demoiselle ! 
Quick  now,  maladroit!  To  it!" 

Channing  took  out  his  pocket-knife  and  removed 
the  stone.  Winnie,  promptly  reassured,  bent  her 


Broken  Cables  231 

pretty  head  and  watched  him  gravely.  Petit  Clef 
rummaged  in  his  pockets  and  produced  a  grimy 
bit  of  spice-bread,  which  she  mumbled  delightedly, 
and  repaid  in  damp  and  smothering  kisses,  to 
his  discomfiture. 

"I  do  not  esteem  the  way  that  you  of  America 
caress  those  whom  you  love,"  he  complained, 
dodging  her  velvet  nose.  "There  are  women,  great 
ladies  from  the  East,  who  come  sometimes  to  visit 
the  Commune ;  they  also  kiss  me  as  does  Winnie,  an 
embrace  so  large,  that  it  covers  one's  face  entire, 
and  chokes — A-aah !  It  is  the  salute  of  a  sponge. 
Conduct  yourself  with  more  of  reserve,  demoiselle. 

"You  take  your  diversions  early  in  the  day, 
M'sieu,"  he  went  on,  after  a  pause.  "It  would 
seem  that  the  spring  had  gotten  into  our  blood,  all 
of  us.  The  Pere  Cabet  has  departed  this  morning, 
by  stealth,  upon  the  ferry,  not  to  return  till  moon- 
rise.  He  has  charged  me  that  I  betray  his  going 
to  no  man  of  the  Commune,  therefore  they  deem 
that  he  works  in  his  office,  and  will  not  be  disturbed. 
Probably  he  has  slipped  forth  to  make  merry  with 
the  gnomes  in  those  far  hills,  is  it  not  so?  To 
dance  with  Philomele,  to  contend  at  archery  with 
Robin  Goodfellow?  Yet  it  is  strange  that  he  has 
taken  with  him  so  many  papers  of  law,  all  those 
sealed  documents  which  hold  for  us  the  lands  of  the 
Commune  in  Iowa.  Even  the  great  seal  of  Icaria 
itself  he  has  taken  from  its  locked  case.  Perhaps  it 
is  that  he  has  gone  to  the  House  of  Law  across  the 


232  Diane 

hills,  to  sell  those  lands,  or  to  claim  them  for  himself, 
as  his  own,  while  the  Citoyens  toil  on,  unknowing !" 

Channing  listened,  submissively.  The  words  rus 
tled  past  him  like  a  flight  of  stinging  midges.  He 
noticed  them  as  little. 

"Also  our  Citoyenne  Diane  is  forth,  to  take  the 
air,  dragged  by  force  from  the  room  of  sewing. 
She  has  gone  with  te  Mademoiselle  Rose  and  the 
Lieutenant  Palmer  to  explore  the  Sundered  Island. 
They  have  honoured  me  with  the  wish  that  I  bear 
them  company.  But  I  like  not  the  Lieutenant 
Palmer  as  fellow-voyager.  He  treats  me  as  bon 
enfant,  truly;  yet  he  always  laughs,  laughs,  no 
matter  what  I  may  say.  Since  I  am  small,  yet 
talk  with  words  so  enormous,  he  views  me  as  buffoon, 
as  Pierrot;  he  looks  always  at  Citoyenne  Diane, 
to  see  that  she  enjoys  it — my  absurdity.  M'sieu, 
what  haste !  Do  not  leave  me  behind ;  I  would  go 
with  you  to  the  Fort." 

"How  can  you  get  home  again?  I  shall  not 
come  back  to-night." 

"There  are  always  those  who  delight  themselves 
in  doing  me  a  grace,"  said  Petit  Clef,  blandly. 
"Brother  Paul  drove  his  ox-cart  to  the  Fort  this 
morning,  with  a  load  of  chain.  He  will  rejoice  in 
the  honour  of  my  company.  Or,  if  we  meet  not 
with  him,  there  is  Thore,  who  went  up  last 
night,  on  the  Silver  Arrow,  taking  his  canoe  also, 
and  many  osier  baskets,  to  sell  in  the  town.  He 
will  finish  his  errands  this  morning  and  row  down 


Broken  Cables  233 

to-night ;  there  will  be  a  seat  and  a  soft  cushion  for 
me,  if  I  choose  to  journey  with  him.  No,  take  me 
in  front  of  you,  upon  the  saddle;  it  is  not  fitting 
that  I,  the  guest,  should  crouch  ignobly  behind." 

Channing  set  the  child  before  him,  and  lashed  the 
tiny  crutches  to  the  saddle-bags.  The  merciless 
chatter  was  rousing  him,  slowly  yet  surely,  from 
his  torpor  of  despair.  Thought  awoke  once  more. 
The  realisation  of  his  sundered  life;  the  meaning  of 
this  ride,  beat  down  upon  him  like  clangorous  bells. 
As  life 'flows  back  through  a  frost-numbed  limb,  so 
consciousness  returned,  with  stings  of  recollection, 
with  throbbing  agonies.  Yet  better  pain  than  this 
blind  apathy. 

Petit  Clef  settled  himself  with  much  fidget  and 
circumstance,  like  a  whimsical  kitten.  Channing's 
free  arm  tightened  around  the  child  as  they  started 
away.  It  was  good  to  feel  the  weight  of  the  soft 
little  body  against  his  own. 

"What  may  your  errand  be  at  the  Fort,  mon 
ami?" 

"I  have  no  errand  there.  I  am  going  farther 
north." 

"H'm-m."  Petit  Clef  braided  three  strands  of 
Winnie's  mane  with  exquisite  care.  "You  please 
yourself  to  be  mysterious,  M'sieu.  Perhaps  you 
go  to  look  upon  that  great  swarm  of  emigrants,  who 
passed  the  Commune  yesterday,  upon  the  plank 
road.  Such  horses  !  Such  wagons,  with  their  white 
tops,  like  great  white  birds!  They  carried  with 


234  Diane 

them  all  things  which  one  needs  for  a  home,  save 
the  house  itself — and  the  well,  perhaps.  They 
invited  me  to  dine  with  them ;  it  was  a  thing  amazing 
to  behold  of  beef  and  of  potatoes  boiled  upon  a 
stove  lashed  in  one  wagon — to  see  it  served  and 
passed  about  to  the  voyagers,  as  one  serves  at  a 
Commune  banquet.  We  sat  on  the  grass,  holding 
our  plates,  clean  shingles,  upon  our  knees;  we 
laughed,  we  joked,  all  were  free  and  joyous.  They 
showed  me  their  bedrooms,  those  broad  wagons  in 
which  they  sleep;  boxes  in  ranks  of  three  rose  one 
over  another,  with  linen  white  as  the  capstrings  of 
Mere  Drouet,  and  pillows  soft  as  her  palm.  I 
climbed  upon  one  wagon  and  found  a  shoemaker 
within,  squatted  upon  his  bench,  pounding  with  all 
his  might ;  the  leather  stood  around  him  in  rolls  as 
tall  as  Winnie,  fit  to  make  shoes  for  a  colossus.  In 
another  wagon  stood  the  blacksmith  with  his  forge; 
on  still  another —  Ah,  you  should  have  seen  that ! 
were  piled  the  tubes  of  iron  and  the  wheels  and 
boilers  for  a  mill;  eight  oxen  dragged  this  load, 
yoked  side  by  side;  twice  that  morning  had  they 
stopped,  to  throw  water  upon  the  blazing  axles, 
kindled  by  the  rubbing  of  the  monstrous  weight. 
It  was  a  marvel !  Yet  these  things  are  not  so 
strange  as  to  behold  the  people  themselves,  flocking 
always  to  the  West.  They  must  leave  their  homes, 
not  so?  And  their  friends,  and  all  the  places 
which  are  dear  to  them  ?  Yet  they  go  on,  on,  as  the 
wild  pigeon  flocks,  always  to  the  sunset.  Is  it  that 


Broken  Cables  235 

the  whole  world  will  hurry  away  to  this  strange 
West?  So  they  have  passed  all  spring,  those 
white  wagons,  ever  crawling;  so  they  passed  last 
year,  and  the  year  before — ah,  tou jours !  It  is 
the  pilgrimage  of  a  nation." 

The  narrow  road  climbed  slope  and  ledge;  it 
glimmered  white  through  twilight  thickets,  where 
the  wild  grape  tossed  its  silvery  censers,  and  the 
dim  air  thrilled  with  nestling  twitter;  it  forded 
swift  brown  runnels,  breast-high;  it  bent  to  the 
river  again,  and  trailed  along  the  sandy  rim,  sedate. 
Always  the  man  rode  silent,  unheeding.  Always 
the  child  voice  piped  its  sweet,  ruthless  tale. 

"Yonder  lies  Red  Beak,  where  we  rowed,  the 
four  of  us,  to  hold  the  festival  of  birthday  for 
Citoyenne  Diane.  Do  you  remember,  M'sieu  le 
Capitaine  ?  You  were  most  stupid  that  day ! 
First,  you  must  push  your  boat  aground  in  that 
preposterous  marsh,  with  the  ooze  knee-deep,  and 
the  purple  flags  so  thick  that  one  might  not  step 
without  crushing  them — ah,  how  we  have  reviled 
you  for  trampling  upon  our  escutcheon  of  France ! 
Then  you  must  carry  us  ashore,  one  by  one,  through 
the  mire.  Mademoiselle  Rose  has  torn  her  scarf 
of  lace  upon  your  epaulet;  Citoyenne  Diane  has 
lost  the  slipper  from  her  foot,  into  a  deep  pool;  you 
fished  for  it  a  half -hour  with  my  crutch,  and  brought 
it  up  at  last,  the  green  ribbons  all  stained  and 
tangled,  a  pixy's  shoe,  strung  with  water-weed  all 
over.  Bien,  the  pixies  were  angry  for  its  loss ;  they 


236  Diane 

blew  out  our  camp-fire  as  fast  as  we  could  light  it, 
they  sent  the  sand -flies  to  tease  us,  and  the  thunder 
to  daunt  us.  But  it  was  a  day  of  Paradise,  not 
so?  Myself,  I  have  the  most  rejoiced  to  see  you 
contend  at  archery  with  Citoyenne  Diane.  One 
would  not  believe  such  little  hands  could  string  that 
heavy  bow ;  and  what  an  aim !  Never  has  she 
missed  the  gold ;  while  you,  always  so  careful  of  the 
feelings  of  others,  have  taken  heed  that  you  shall 
not  wound  even  your  target.  And  the  serpent 
which  you  killed,  while  Mademoiselle  Rose  held 
her  eyes  and  shrieked,  and  the  Citoyenne  ran  as 
far  as  to  the  marsh,  that  she  might  not  see !  It 
was  a  scene  to  fire  the  soul — this  infant  reptile,  not 
two  feet  in  length,  innocent  as  the  dew,  lying  slain 
in  the  grass,  while  you  stood  over  him,  all  glorious ! 
How  have  we  gazed  upon  you  in  reverence,  our 
Sain*  George ! 

"Also  we  have  lighted  a  fire,  and  have  cooked 
our  fish  and  our  apples  as  do  the  Indians,  upon  the 
red-hot  stones.  Que  c'6tait  drole !  And  we  have 
rowed  home  in  the  dusk,  down  the  big,  still  river, 
while  the  whippoorwills  besought  us  that  we  should 
not  go  so  soon,  and  all  the  little  stars  came  running 
out  to  see. 

"Ah!  And  there  is  the  Council  Mound,  high  up 
between  those  great  hills.  It  was  there  that  signal 
fires  were  lighted,  in  the  far  years  before  the  Deluge. 
Mademoiselle  Rose  has  told  me  of  those  days; 
she  has  marked  for  me  upon  the  map  those  other 


Broken  Cables  237 

Council  Mounds,  scattered  through  this  great 
valley,  shaped  as  a  serpent,  a  wheel,  a  moon. 
Myself,  I  have  listened;  that  is  not  to  say,  I  have 
believed.  Behold,  M'sieu,  if  those  great  banks  had 
been  reared  before  the  days  of  Noah,  they  would 
all  have  melted  away  in  those  forty  days,  not  so? 
For  truth,  the  Pere  Cabet  believes  of  the  Deluge  not 
one  word ;  it  is  all  lies,  betises,  so  he  declares  to  me. 
But  I  have  searched  these  high  bluffs  over,  yes,  and 
the  prairies  beyond  the  river,  as  well;  and  I  have 
found  of  the  shells  by  thousands,  yes,  and  the  mottled 
river  stones;  therefore,  I  would  say,  your  Deluge 
is  good  history.  Does  it  not  so  prove,  M'sieu? 

"She  is  most  amiable  in  making  explanation, 
Mademoiselle;  but,  being  woman,  she  believes,  and 
that  is  a  thing  most  excellent,  in  its  way.  She 
tells  me  also —  Oh,  behold,  M'sieu !  There  she 
stands  this  moment,  upon  the  island  bank!  And 
the  Citoyenne  and  the  Lieutenant  Palmer  in  the 
boat  below.  See !" 

Channing's  heart  thundered  against  his  breast. 
It  was  Rose,  indeed.  Her  arms  overflowed  with 
great  stalks  of  fern,  green  as  her  flowing  boat -cloak; 
the  wind  flung  her  black  hair  in  wild  confusion. 
Palmer  beached  the  boat  with  careful  strokes,  then 
stood  up  to  lift  Diane  ashore.  Through  the  crys 
talline  air  Channing  caught  the  flash  of  the  great 
gold  buckle  at  her  little  waist ;  the  faint  chime  of  her 
laughter  reached  him  across  the  still  expanse 
between.  He  set  his  teeth  as  he  watched  Palmer's 


238  Diane 

gallant  courtesy,  the  care  and  grace  with  which  he 
aided  her,  step  by  step.  Rose's  head  was  high,  her 
cheek  aflame.  Palmer  walked  as  though  upon  air; 
his  supple,  splendid  body  was  a  very  temple  of  Joy. 
And  Diane?  He  could  all  but  read  the  radiance 
in  her  eyes.  For  them  it  was  all  sunlight,  all  June. 

"We  approach  the  Fort,  Monsieur."  Petit  Clef 
spoke  once  again,  after  an  hour  of  silence.  "There 
is  Thore's  boat,  the  Noemi,  moored  under  the 
willows,  close  to  the  ferry  landing.  Permit  me  to 
signal  for  the  ferry,  M'sieu.  My  orders  are  always 
obeyed  upon  the  moment."  He  took  his  willow 
flute  from  his  pocket  and  blew  a  quavering  call. 

The  ferry  crossed  over  leisurely  in  answer  to  his 
signal.  She  was  a  squat  and  awkward  craft, 
balanced  on  overhead  ropes  which  crossed  the 
stream  diagonally,  lashed  to  high-bound  poles. 
Winnie  fretted  at  the  creaking  boards  beneath 
her  feet,  and  curveted  frantically  at  each  splash  of 
the  huge  steering  oar.  Channing  could  not  see  her 
misery.  His  hand  lay  lax  upon  her  neck.  Petit 
Clef  it  was  who  soothed  her  with  low  chatter  and 
tender  stroking.  When  they  reached  the  Iowa 
side,  it  was  Petit  Clef's  voice  and  hand  which 
coaxed  the  chafing  creature  up  the  terrifying 
landing  and  so  ashore. 

"Adieu,  M'sieu  le  Capitaine."  Petit  Clef  turned 
and  laid  his  cheek  against  the  young  man's  arm 
for  a  moment.  "I  go  to  make  myself  at  home  in 
the  Noemi  until  Thorn's  return,  You  go  on,  upon 


Broken  Cables  239 

your  most  mysterious  errand.  So  be  it."  He 
slid  to  the  ground  and  petted  Winnie's  neck.  "  May 
all  joy  ride  with  you.  You  are*  a  good  man,  M'sieu 
le  Sain'  George,  albeit  your  head  is  sometimes  so 
very  thick.  The  things  which  you  leave  behind,  I 
shall  cherish;  you  need  have  no  fear  for  them. 
Also,  you  shall  return  upon  a  better  day,  and  find 
them  your  own  once  again,  the  miracle  performed — 
if  you  do  not  return  too  soon."  He  pried  into 
Channing's  gray  stricken  face  with  eyes  diamond- 
clear  and  smiling.  "And  until  then — bonjour!" 
He  scrambled  upon  a  pile  of  freight,  and  watched 
in  silence  until  horse  and  rider  vanished  into  the 
gray  dust  of  the  northward  road.  Two  hours 
afterward,  Thore"  found  him  curled  in  the  bow  of 
the  boat,  his  flute  clutched  tight  in  both  elfin  hands. 
Thor6,  tender  as  a  mother,  built  up  a  tent  of  willow 
branches  to  shield  the  child  from  the  sun,  and 
trailed  his  oars  all  the  long  miles  to  the  Commune, 
lest  he  might  waken  the  little  one.  It  behooved  him 
to  be  careful.  He  rested  none  too  soundly,  the 
dear  treasure;  and  to-day  he  must  be  grieved  and 
weary.  Truly,  it  was  most  pitiful,  to  hear  him 
sobbing  in  his  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
THE  BRINK 

"YESSUM,  Miss  Felicie!"  Persis  rocked  back 
and  forth,  hugging  her  knees ;  her  black  face  rippled 
with  infectious  fun.  "You  jes'  orter  seed  'um! 
I  sassed  'um  like  ole  Cabet  does  his  folks  up  to  de 
Commune,  I  des'  laid  on  de  hick'ry !  Spec'  dey  ain' 
none  o'  'um  been  tongue-f railed  like  dat  sence  dey's 
fryin'  size.  An'  dey's  good  blood,  too,  Miss  Felicie ; 
dey  took  it  lak  gen T men,  ever'  one.  Dey  gives  me 
de  skiff,  an'  de  money  ter  pay  my  'spenses  while  I's 
gone,"  her  face  was  sober  now.  "An'  dey  says 
good-bye,  lak  dey's  talkin'  ter  white  folks.  Oh, 
dey's  got  quality  back  ov  'um,  no  matter  if  dey 
is  pore  white  now.  An'  de  folks  in  loway,  where 
Friend  Barclay  sent  me,  dey  is  kind,  too;  I  got 
fifty  cents  lef  outer  what  dey  give  me  ter  come 
home  with."  She  dived  into  the  bundle  on  her 
knees,  and  brought  out  the  little  pouch  which  the 
men  had  tossed  to  her  the  night  of  her  escape. 
"Yessum,  ever'  body  treats  me  fine;  dey  cert'ny 
does.  But,  Miss  Felicie — how's  all  dis  goin'  ter 
end  up?" 

"Don't  ask  me,  Persis.  It's  enough  for  me  to 
see  you  back  again."  Madame  Manderson  crossed 

240 


The  Brink  241 

the  room  to  the  window;  her  eyes  were  still  wet 

with  the  joy  of  Persis'  return.  "Go  out  and  look 
at  your  garden.  The  morning-glories  are  choking 
out  the  tomatoes,  and  there  are  weeds  everywhere. 
I  should  have  asked  one  of  the  Commune  boys  to 
clear  it  up,  but  I  haven't  been  strong  enough  to  go 
over  there." 

"Jes'  you  wait  tel  I  gits  at  'um!"  Persis  was 
folding  her  palm-leaf  shawl,  and  winding  a  fresh 
turban  about  her  head.  "You  mean  tell  me  dey 
ain'  nobody  been  nigh  ter  see  ter  you  all  dis  month 
I's  been  gone?" 

"Nonsense,  Persis.  Friend  Barclay  has  been 
in  every  day,  and  Miss  Faulkner  has  come  up  from 
the  steamer  again  and  again.  Young  Lieutenant 
Palmer  came  with  her  the  first  time,  and  he  has  been 
here  alone  several  times  since.  He  came  over 
yesterday  afternoon,  and  brought  that  dear  little 
Diane,  and  Petit  Clef.  They  had  been  out  for  a 
row,  he  said." 

"De  HI  missy  with  de  curly  hair,  and  de  silk 
dresses?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  but  Miss  Felicie,"  Persis  clung  obstinately 
to  her  point,  "I  wanter  know,  what's  goin'  happen, 
nex'.  Is  I  goin'  have  ter  keep  on  dis  way?  Pick 
tip  an'  leave  you,  eve'y  whip-stitch?  Is  dey  goin' 
make  slaves  outer  us  free  niggers  agin,  no  matter 
how  long  we's  been  free?  Kase  le's  go  ter  Canady 
to-morrer,  garden  er  no  garden,  if  dey  is.  I  reckon 


242  Diane 

I  kin  do  'nough  washin'  ter  keep  us  bofe;  an'  I'd 
sooner  be  sold  down  Souf  an'  be  done  with  it  's 
stay  on  dis  teeter.  An'  what's  goin'  come  of  white 
folks  like  Frien'  Barclay  an'  Cap'n  Channing,  what's 
been  a'  runnin'  niggers  off  up  Norf,  an'  lendin'  'um 
money,  an'  breakin'  law  fer  'um,  time  an*  agin? 
Is  I  tell  you  how's  I  seen  Cap'n  Channing  up  in 
loway,  las'  week,  an'  he  tole  me  he's  goin'  ter 
Kansas,  ter  meet  dat  Frien'  Brown,  an'  how  they's 
goin'  make  Kansas  free ?" 

"Why,  Persis,  you're  crazy!  Mr.  Channing  is 
down  at  the  steamer!" 

"No'm,  he  ain't.  'Scuse  me,  I  knows  what  I's 
talkin'  'bout.  He  went  away  f'om  there  las' 
week;  he  ain'  in  de  army  no  more,  nor  nuffin'. 
He's  goin'  ride  roun'  de  country  on  his  horse,  an* 
keep  dem  paddy-rollers  f'om  gittin'  de  No'the'n 
white  folks  an'  de  free  niggers  what's  tryin'  ter 
settle  out  dar.  No'm,  he  ain'  tole  me  all  dat, 
hisse'f;  he  ain'  had  much  ter  say  ter  me,  an'  he 
look  mighty  tired,  'kase  he's  come  all  de  way  f'om 
White  Ford  on  his  hoss  dat  day;  but  de  urr  white 
folks  where  I  stayed  dey  tole  me  all  'bout  it.  No'm, 
I  ain'  mistaken,  'tall!" 

Madame  Manderson  pondered.  Rose  had  spent 
an  hour  with  her,  only  the  morning  before;  the 
branches  of  late-blooming  crab -apple  which  she 
had  brought  still  flooded  the  room  with  wild  pure 
incense.  "Strange,  that  she  has  never  spoken  of 
her  cousin,  nor  hinted  at  his  departure!"  she 


The  Brink  243 

murmured.  Her  eye  caught  the  far  huddled  out 
lines  of  the  Commune,  dazzling  white  against  the 
cloudless  blue.  She  remembered  the  flush  on 
Diane's  wan  face  when  she  had  spoken  of  Channing 
and  his  work;  she  recalled  Palmer's  frown,  Petit 
Clef's  calm,  indulgent  glance.  Perhaps  it  was  not 
so  strange — perhaps  ! 

"Somehow  I  feel  worried  about  the  Commune 
people,  Persis.  I'm  better  to-day;  I  have  a  great 
mind  to  walk  up  there.  I  can't  see  a  bit  of  smoke 
from  the  chimneys,  not  even  from  the  bakehouse. 
And  then  the  wood-choppers  haven't  passed  on 
their  way  to  the  Island  these  three  days.  They 
get  so  worn  out  these  long  afternoons  and  the  hill 
is  such  a  climb  that  I  have  watched  for  them  as  they 
came  past  in  the  evening,  and  asked  them  to  stop 
for  a  glass  of  milk  or  a  cup  of  coffee  with  me.  At 
first  they  hung  back,  for  they  dreaded  to  give 
trouble.  But  when  they  saw  how  much  I  liked  to 
see  them,  they  stopped  each  evening  when  I  called 
to  them,  and  sat  for  a  few  minutes  on  the  porch 
with  me.  I  think  they  enjoyed  the  little  rest, 
really ;  and  they  were  so  pleasant  and  so  interesting, 
and  always  eager  to  do  some  favour  for  me.  You 
don't  know  how  I've  missed  them!" 

"They's  sompin'  wrong,  an'  I  know  it,"  nodded 
Persis.  "De  ferryman,  he  done  tole  me  so  when 
he  brung  me  across,  dis  mornin'.  Dey's  mo'n 
sixty  families  pick  up  an*  lef  de  Commune  dis 
month,  an*  day's  urrs  a'leavin'  eve'y  day.  Dat  ole 


244  Diane 

fool  Cabet,  he's  done  made  'um  all  so  mad,  mos' 
likely  dey'll  all  go,  'fore  he  gits  through  wis  'um. 
Says  he  an'  de  folks  what  stands  by  him  is  goin' 
keep  de  farms  here  in  Ill'nois,  an'  de  Phalanstery 
an*  all  de  books  an'  machinery  an'  things,  an' 
those  what's  mad  at  him  kin  go  an'  live  on  de 
farms  over  in  loway,  ef  dey  wants  ter.  Eveh  heah 
anything  bodacious  lak  dat,  now?  Dey  ain'  rno'n 
a  quarter  er  de  folks  is  friends  of  his ;  dee  urr  three- 
quarter  kin  go  live  on  dat  onbroke  prairie,  where  dey 
am'  no  cabins,  nor  wells,  nor  nuffin  else.  An'  jes' 
'cause  dey  ain'  willin'  ter  let  him  crack  de  whip 
ober  'um !  De  ole " 

"Get  my  bonnet,  please,  Persis.  I'm  going  up 
there  right  away." 

The  village  blazed  white  and  empty  under  the 
high  June  sun.  Madame  Manderson  trod  the  hot 
flagstones  lightly;  her  slender  figure  in  its  soft, 
floating  black,  the  widow's  cap  set  like  a  coronet 
above  her  parted  snowy  braids,  made  the  one 
grateful  shadow  in  the  noon  glare.  She  looked 
about  her  with  a  strained  intent  ness,  which  sat 
oddly  upon  her  tranquil  face ;  from  time  to  time  she 
paused  to  look  behind  her,  up  the  still,  empty 
street.  In  all  her  walk,  she  had  not  met  a  soul. 
This  was  the  more  surprising,  since  it  was  the  hour 
for  recreation.  The  cottage  doors  were  shut,  the 
blinds  were  drawn;  no  sound  of  children's  voices 
floated  out  to  her;  no  smoke  curled  from  the  roofs. 
Yet  there  was  no  reassurance  in  this  unreal  peace. 


The  Brink  245 

Menace  crept  and  whispered  beneath  the  soundless 
calm;  the  sweet  common  day  seemed  a  thin  mask 
for  stealthy  Tragedy. 

Madame  hurried  across  the  Commune  gardens. 
Faint  rose  and  lavender  fragrance  floated  from  her 
gown  to  meet  the  rose  and  lavender  from  the  crowded 
glowing  beds.  The  Commune  gates  stood  wide ;  she 
stopped  within,  paling  for  surprise.  All  was  silent 
and  deserted  in  the  great  shops,  which  she  had 
always  seen  overflowing  with  workers  and  with 
laughter.  The  long,  low  room  where  Toni  and 
Th6ophile  sat  and  carved  the  wooden  shoes  lay 
hushed  and  empty.  The  great  scoop-knife  on 
which  they  turned  and  shaped  the  bass  wood  blocks 
still  hung  from  the  ceiling  by  its  leathern  thong; 
silvery  shavings  blew  about  the  floor.  One  sabot, 
complete  save  for  the  carven  star  whose  outlines 
were  already  drawn,  lay  on  Theophile's  table;  a 
worn  blue  coat  hung  on  the  apprentice's  bench  near 
by. 

The  room  fairly  palpitated  with  eager  human 
life.  The  very  breath  of  Labour  sighed  past  the 
low,  vine-bound  windows.  She  passed  her  hand 
over  her  bewildered  eyes.  Surely  her  sight  must  be 
playing  her  some  eerie  prank.  The  workers  must 
be  there. 

She  crossed  the  yard  to  the  ropewalk.  Prying 
sunbeams  thrust  wizard  fingers  through  the  shrunken 
rafters,  and  traced  quizzical  messages  along  the 
walls.  Madame  Manderson  walked  the  length  of 


246  Diane 

the  dim  alley,  with  slow,  even  tread.  She  was 
ashamed  of  her  childish  relief  when  she  stepped  into 
full  sunlight  again. 

At  the  door  of  the  old  Arsenal,  now  the  Commune 
smithy,  she  paused.  The  anvil  was  silent;  the 
ashes  lay  cold  on  the  hearth.  But  Brother  Paul 
sat  in  the  great  south  arch,  a  heap  of  broken  harness 
at  his  feet.  He  sprang  up  with  a  cry  of  pleasure. 

"  Madame,  I  rejoice  myself  to  behold  you  !  You 
would  see  the  Pere  Cabet  ? " 

"I  would  talk  with  you,  Citoyen."  She  sank 
down  on  the  rough  stool  which  he  sprang  to  place 
for  her ;  she  took  the  cup  gratefully  which  he  brought. 
"Just  a  little  tired.  I  find  that  I'm  older  than  I 
think."  She  smiled  back  at  the  anxious  giant. 
"Do  not  let  me  hinder  your  work,  Citoyen." 

He  flung  his  big  stained  hands  outward  angrily. 
"  My  work !  Behold  it,  Madame  !  Since  this  calam 
ity  is  come  upon  us,  I  have  nothing  to  do  !  Nothing ! 
I  mend  the  harness  thus  to  pass  the  hours;  it  is  to 
say,  I  embroider  altar-cloths.  The  mill  is  stopped: 
I  may  not  care  for  the  machinery.  The  fields  are 
abandoned;  one  no  longer  brings  me  the  horses  to 
be  shod.  Voila  Citoyen  Paul,  an  idler,  a  drone !" 

"What  is  the  trouble,  Citoyen?" 

"Trouble!"  he  clinched  his  big  hands;  the  veins 
rose  taut  as  wire  on  the  huge  wrists.  "  There  is  no 
trouble,  Madame.  It  is  that  we  are  jus'  men, 
jus*  human  men,  that  is  all,  yet  we  are  treated 
always  as  the  babe  in  swaddling-clothes,  and  some 


The  Brink  247 

day  we  make  the  end  of  our  patience.  At  this 
hour,  when  all  should  rest  and  eat,  the  Pere  Cabet 
demands  that  all  shall  assemble  at  the  Phalanstery, 
there  to  hear  judgment." 

"To  hear  judgment?" 

"  I  talk  the  affairs  of  the  Commune  to  you  as  to 
one  of  ourselves,  Madame." 

"Certainly,  Citoyen." 

"  Then — ah !  Let  me  relate  to  you  one  little 
story.  Heinrich,  who  will  wed  our  Minna,  she  who 
directs  the  workers  in  the  room  of  sewing,  has 
transgressed  the  law.  The  evil  thought  came  to 
him,  '  I  will  make  gift  to  my  bride,'  so  he  has  rowed 
without  consent  to  the  City,  and  has  sold  the  cap  of 
fur,  which  the  Commune  had  permitted  him  to 
keep  as  heirloom,  for  a  veil  of  lace  for  her  bridal. 
Truly,  she  could  not  wear  it,  ever;  but  she  could 
keep  it  to  look  upon,  as  his  gift.  By  some  slip,  the 
word  came  to  the  Pere  Cabet.  He  has  summoned 
Heinrich  to  appear  before  the  Commune,  and 
Minna,  also,  since  she  has  given  temptation.  This 
was  at  sunset  that  the  word  came  to  them.  Full 
of  dread  lest  the  Pere  Cabet  should  forbid  their 
marriage  as  punishment  for  this  sin,  they  have 
slipped  away  across  the  fields  to  the  house  of  M. 
1'Ami  Barclay,  Giver  of  Justice." 

"'Giver  of  Justice/  Citoyen?" 

"Ah,  I  forget!  Justice  of  Peace,  is  it  not  so? 
He  has  wedded  them,  according  to  their  wish. 
They  have  returned,  man  and  wife,  to  the  Commune, 


248  Diane 

and  have  sent  written  confession  to  the  Pere  Cabet. 
That  is  not  to  say,  they  are  forgiven.  To-day 
Heinrich  stands  for  his  shame  before  his  brothers, 
while  the  Pere  Cabet  exhorts  them,  that  they  do 
not  fall  into  like  sin." 

"Surely  you  are  jesting,  Citoyen  !" 
"Also  there  is  Sosthene,  who  has  broken  with 
the  Commune,  and  goes  to-morrow  to  seek  labour 
elsewhere.  He  is  given  but  twenty-five  francs  as 
his  portion,  therefore,  he  must  leave  Elise,  his  wife, 
with  us,  until  he  may  make  place  for  her  in  the 
world.  Their  infant  has  now  eight  months,  and 
Elise  has  not  strength  to  hold  it.  Sosthene  is 
forbidden  to  pluck  of  the  osiers  on  the  Island,  but 
he  has  found  some  small  boards,  muddy  and  full 
of  the  holes  of  nails,  so  he  cleans  them  and  makes 
from  them  a  cradle,  that  she  may  rest  her  arms. 
This  theft  of  Commune  goods  is  discovered,  also; 
Sosthene  now  answers  before  the  Council  for  his 
crime." 

"  Pere  Cabet  cannot  be  himself.     That  is  certain." 

"Many    of    the    members    have    stayed    away, 

myself  among  them.     Our  reckoning  comes  later. 

Even    Mademoiselle    Diane —      Ah !     Behold  her, 

Madame!" 

"The  Citoyenne  yonder?     That  is  not  Diane." 

A  young   girl   came   running   wildly   across   the 

Phalanstery  garden.     Her  slender  body  was  swathed 

in  a  hideous  flapping  dress  of  blue  cotton,  gathered 

bag-fashion   at   waist    and   throat;   her   little   feet 


The  Brink  249 

stumbled  in  broad  sabots.  Her  curling  hair  gleamed 
molten  brass  beneath  the  puffed  white  cap.  Of  all 
her  finery,  only  the  long,  flashing  chain  remained. 
At  her  heels  came  Petit  Clef,  hopping  as  swiftly  as 
a  robin  on  his  tiny  crutches. 

" Welcome,  Madame!"  He  waved  his  hand  to 
her.  "Regard  our  Diane,  who  has  assumed  the 
garb  of  the  Commune,  and  dreams  that  thus  will 
she  aid  to  bring  peace !" 

Diane  scarcely  looked  at  Madame  Manderson. 
"Come,  I  pray  you,"  she  gasped,  catching  Paul's 
arm.  "He  is  most  grieved  that  you  have 
turned  from  him;  he  will  not  believe  it.  You 
still  love  him,  Citoyen?  You  still  have  faith  in 
him?" 

"Love  him?  Always,  Mademoiselle."  His  voice 
broke  and  quivered.  "  He  alone  knows  how  dearly 
I  hold  him.  And  he  should  know  that  I  cannot  go 
to  hear  him  make  a  mock  of  himself." 

Diane  turned  to  Madame.  "Implore  him,  I  beg 
you."  Her  voice  was  a  wail. 

"Leave  him  alone."  Petit  Clef  clambered  to  the 
smith's  shoulder.  "  The  Pere  Cabet  needs  to  learn 
that  he  is  not  master  of  our  wills.  What  of  your 
son,  Citoyen?" 

The  smith  put  the  child  down  roughly.  "He 
grows  daily." 

"Is  he  yet  baptised?" 

"Be  quiet,  P'tit." 

"Ang61e,  thy  wife,  will  give  thee  no  peace  till 


250  Diane 

the  baptism.  Baptism  is  to  the  Pere  Cabet  a  thing 
of  abhorrence.  Which  wilt  thou  choose?" 

Citoyen  Paul  swung  away,  muttering.  Madame 
turned  to  Diane. 

"My  little  girl,  I  thought  that  you  were  to  start 
for  France  last  week.  And — my  child,  why  should 
you  wear  this  dress?  What  good  does  it  do?" 

"I  am  not  going  to  France."  Madame  started 
at  the  lifeless  tone.  "The  Pere  Cabet  was  de 
termined;  but  I  have  set  my  will  against  his,  and 
I  am  conqueror.  I  shall  stay  with  him  always.  I 
wear  the  garments  of  the  Commune,  I  try  to  live  its 
life.  If  I  can  do  nothing  more,  I  can  be  to  him  one 
disciple." 

"Do  you  believe  in  him,  my  child?" 

''I  believe  in  him.  But  the  System — it  is  not 
for  such  as  I.  It  is  too  high,  too  noble.  It  is  my 
wicked  selfishness ;  but  I  cannot  blame  poor  Minna 
for  her  heart's  desire,  nor  Sosthene,  that  he  wished 
to  please  the  one  he  loved.  The  Pere  Cabet — he 
shall  never  know  that  I  have  these  evil 
thoughts.  Always  shall  I  uphold  him  in  all  that 
he  may  do." 

"  What  of  your  own  life,  Diane  ?  Is  this  the  way 
to  live  it?" 

"My  own  life  is  gone."  Madame  could  not  look 
into  the  set  white  face;  she  knew  what  she  would 
read.  "  I  belong  to  the  Pere  Cabet.  To  serve  him 
is  all  the  life  that  I  may  ask." 

The  Phalanstery  doors  swung  wide.     Vexed  and 


The  Brink  251 

wearied  by  the  tedious  hour,  the  people  crowded 
and  hustled  their  way  out,  like  angry  bees. 

"I'll  go  now,  dear.  You're  a  brave  child.  And 
you  will  come  and  see  me  again  soon?" 

Diane  put  up  her  quivering  face  for  Madame 's 
kiss.  "If  you  will  permit  me." 

"And  has  Rose  been  here  to  see  you?  She  will 
come,  and  she  will  help  to  pass  the  tired  hours, 
I  know."  The  startled  pain  in  the  girl's  look  did 
not  escape  her  mother -eyes.  "  She's  a  dear  comfort. 
Good-bye,  my  child." 

She  paused  in  the  gateway,  and  glanced  back. 

The  grim  burlesque  of  absolutism  was  ended  for 
the  day.  The  chief  actors  stumbled  down  the  broad 
steps,  with  eyes  averted,  heavily  aloof.  Sosthene, 
carrying  the  tiny  cradle,  his  face  flushed  till  it  would 
seem  that  the  fury  of  his  humiliation  might  burst 
the  swollen  veins ;  Heinrich,  glassy -eyed  and  vacant, 
his  mouth  stupidly  apart;  Minna,  clinging  bravely 
at  his  side,  a  sobbing  champion. 

Last  of  all  came  the  Pere  Cabet.  A  gray  shadow 
dimmed  his  features :  his  step  was  slow  and  wavering ; 
he  moved  like  one  in  an  appalling  dream.  At  the 
foot  of  the  path,  he  brushed  past  a  knot  of  majority 
sympathisers,  who  stood  their  ground  defiantly, 
refusing  to  make  way  after  the  earlier  humble 
fashion.  Pere  Cabet  spoke  out  harshly;  a  peal 
of  jeering  laughter  answered  his  reproof.  Madame 
saw  the  old  man  reel  beneath  its  meaning. 

Diane  sprang  to  his  side.     The  taunting  voices 


Diane 

died  away  in  shamed  silence.  Madame  watched 
them  walk  away  together.  Diane's  head  was 
high,  her  glance  a  challenge.  Pere  Cabet  leaned 
pitifully  on  her  slight  arm. 


CHAPTER  XVII 
THE  PILGRIMS  OP  '56 

A  WIDE  land,  dipping  and  rolling,  dipping  and 
rolling  again,  heaving  in  vast  brown  billows  far 
as  eye  might  see,  till  the  last  wave  broke  on  the 
dim  blue  steep  of  the  sky.  A  land  of  blinding  sun 
shine  ;  of  swift  and  deadly  storm ;  of  fierce  summers, 
when  the  sky,  a  brazen  shield  seven  times  heated, 
charred  the  living  green;  of  iron  winters,  when  the 
dry  snow  sifted  through  every  crevice  of  the  pitiful 
mud-daubed  cabins,  and  whirled  in  tireless,  deadly 
frolic,  a  bewildering  saraband,  without.  A  land 
of  broad  light  and  massy  shadow,  whose  stern  lines 
melted  beneath  no  grace  of  cloud,  no  gossamer  bloom 
of  mist.  A  young  land,  and  a  noble;  superb  in 
her  tawny  nakedness,  regal  in  her  fruitful  strength ; 
deep-bosomed,  pure -breathed,  fit  nurse-mother  to  a 
nation.  And  a  fantastic  throng  it  was,  drawn 
from  the  far  shores  of  the  world,  that  claimed  her 
foster-mother. 

Four  days  of  hard  riding  brought  Channing  to 
Iowa  City,  then  a  dingy  huddle  of  cabins  and 
tents,  high  on  the  banks  of  a  hurrying  stream. 
Through  this  settlement  as  through  a  narrow  gorge 
poured  day  by  day  the  unflagging  stream  of  emi- 

253 


254  Diane 

grants  from  North  and  East,  a  vast  resistless  flood. 
Files  of  white-topped  wagons — slow,  patient  ships  of 
the  prairie — stood  hub  to  hub  in  the  half -cleared 
open ;  scores  of  tents  were  pegged  in  line,  each  with 
its  emblem,  a  maple-branch,  a  coon-skin,  a  horse 
shoe,  hung  to  the  flap,  to  indicate  the  train  to  which 
it  belonged.  All  about,  the  half -conquered  forest 
swarmed  with  eager  life.  The  tiny  settlement 
seemed  to  thrill  and  palpitate  with  an  ever-rising 
fever.  It  was  as  if  the  very  blocks  and  stones 
felt  the  jar  of  swift -treading  Event.  The  town 
itself  seemed  a  shelter  flung  together  for  the  day, 
flimsy,  transient;  one  felt  an  odd  foreboding  that 
the  morrow  would  find  only  ashes  on  abandoned 
hearths.  The  call  of  the  West  breathed  through 
the  thin,  tense  air.  Looming  Crisis  summoned  like 
a  beckoning  hand. 

Accustomed  as  he  was  to  mingling  with  men  of 
every  sort,  Channing  walked  among  these  stirring 
crowds  with  wonder  and  distrust.  They  were  all 
Free-State  emigrants,  he  knew;  they  shared  alike 
the  common  aim  of  building  up  settlements  in  the 
new  country,  and  thus  holding  the  State  for  the 
North;  yet,  save  for  this  one  bond  of  mutual  plan, 
no  more  alien  host  could  have  been  mustered 
between  the  seas.  Brawny  red-shirted  lumbermen, 
who  walked  with  the  juggler  tread  of  men  to  whom 
a  floating  log  is  a  seemly  pavement,  swaggered 
through  the  forest  paths,  greeting  each  other  with 
shouts  that  might  have  drowned  the  Penobscot's 


The  Pilgrims  of  '56  255 

roar.  Slim  boys  in  blue  and  gilt,  crested  like 
yearling  gamecocks,  paced  the  camp  bounds,  sword 
in  hand,  and  laboured  to  maintain  a  grim  and 
martial  dignity  in  the  face  of  all  the  fascinating 
marvels  of  the  day.  To  their  honour  be  it  said 
that  the  traditional  buckram  of  West  Point  knew 
no  yielding,  though  the  times  challenged  the 
curiosity  of  the  sternest.  Officers  of  the  Emigrant 
Aid  Association,  sober,  close-mouthed  men,  courteous 
in  manner,  impenetrable  in  plan,  rubbed  elbows 
with  uproarious  jayhawkers,  thirsting  for  a  brawl. 
Captious  elderly  gentlemen,  with  Boston  and  Con 
servative  writ  large  from  the  bundling  folds  of  their 
high  stocks  to  the  flannel  gaiters  on  their  feet, 
lavished  vain  charges  upon  the  sentries,  and  argued 
themselves  purple  over  their  coffee  and  bacon. 
There  were  few  women  in  the  camp.  The  emigrant 
trains  of  the  day  carried  full  equipments  for  farming 
and  for  stock-raising,  besides  the  famed  supplies 
of  "  Beecher  Bibles  " ;  but,  in  the  word  of  an  interested 
chronicler,  there  was  a  plentiful  lack  of  spinning- 
wheels.  Yet  women  there  were.  Half  a  dozen 
tranquil  mothers  in  Israel,  dressed  with  Quakerish 
simplicity,  who  toiled  by  day  to  keep  the  tents  as 
neat  and  shining  as  their  far-away  home  kitchens; 
two  or  three  shy  German  girls,  clinging  to  their 
husbands,  abashed  in  childish  dread  at  this  impossi 
ble  new  world;  one  blithe  young  wife  from  New- 
buryport,  a  charming,  merry  creature,  whose  win 
some  bloom  and  gay,  audacious  drollery  were  the 


256  Diane 

joy  of  the  whole  camp.  She  had  been  a  factory 
girl,  so  she  told  Channing,  with  a  courtesy  befitting 
a  marchioness.  Channing  stared.  New  Englander 
though  he  was,  he  knew  nothing  of  that  group  of 
women,  peculiar  to  their  place  and  decade,  who 
had  not  only  graced  their  labour  through  their 
skill  and  enthusiasm,  but  had  made  for  themselves 
a  name  in  scholarly  work,  as  well.  Like  the  most 
of  her  mates,  she  was  of  excellent  birth  and  breeding ; 
while  in  education,  she  was  far  beyond  her  time. 
She  chatted  with  Channing  on  Spanish  art  and 
Elizabethan  rhyme;  she  showed  him,  as  earnest  of 
rare  confidence,  the  translation  of  Heine,  which  she 
and  her  husband  were  making  together  at  odd 
moments;  she  petted  the  children,  she  gossiped 
of  housewifery  with  the  grave  mothers,  knitting 
around  the  fire;  she  sang  Highland  catches  and 
plaintive  German  ballads  in  her  sweet,  flickering 
voice  till  the  whole  camp  laid  aside  map  and  chart 
and  wrangle  in  listening  delight,  and  even  Channing 
hushed  his  sore  heart  to  hear. 

Her  husband,  a  proud,  silent  boy,  drew  back  into 
the  shadows,  and  watched  her  with  dark,  adoring 
eyes.  Constrained  and  shy,  he  had  made  few  friends 
among  his  party;  but  Channing  was  of  his  own  sort, 
and  fostered  by  loneliness  and  perplexities,  a  swift 
and  enduring  intimacy  sprang  up  between  the  two 
men.  Together  they  were  detailed  for  night  patrol ; 
through  those  still  hours  of  comradeship,  while  they 
strode  through  the  high,  dew-burdened  grass, 


The  Pilgrims  of  '56  257 

beneath  the  white  June  stars,  his  story  fell  from 
his  lips,  in  broken,  hesitant  snatches.  It  was  the 
story  of  many  a  lad  of  his  time. 

"You  see,  my  people — they — they  can't  under 
stand.  It  isn't  that  they  want  to  advance  slavery; 
but  they  think  abolition  means  anarchy,  and  they 
won't  listen  to  me  when  I  try  to  explain.  My 
father  caught  me  reading  a  Liberator  one  day,  when 
I  was  home  for  vacation  last  spring.  He  tore  it 
away  from  me  and  threw  it  into  the  fire,  and  then 
he  stood  up  in  prayer-meeting  the  next  night,  and 
prayed  for  aid  in  subduing  a  backsliding  and  stub 
born  son,  who  had  wandered  away  from  lawful 
belief.  I'm  the  only  boy  in  the  family,  you  know. 
Perhaps  it  was  funny.  But  I  was  mad,  and  I 
let  him  know  it,  too.  We  had  it  out,  pretty  hot. 
I  suppose  I  might  as  well  have  held  my  tongue, 
though.  He  couldn't  see  my  way — not  to  save  his 
soul.  When  I  went  back  to  college,  he  said :  '  Now, 
Thomas  Hurlburt,  I'll  give  you  one  month  to  change 
your  mind  and  quit  this  damnable  heresy.  I'm 
giving  you  money  enough  to  last  for  just  that 
month.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  if  you're  still  unde 
cided,  you  can  take  your  choice  between  your  black 
Republican  friends  and  your  family.  One  or  the 
other  must  go  ! ' 

"  Well,  I  went  back  to  Cambridge,  as  meek  as  you 
please.  But  it  wasn't  two  weeks  until  that  Gilbert 
trial,  you  know.  I  heard  of  it,  and  I  walked  into 
town  that  morning,  and  told  Mr.  Phillips  that  I 


258  Diane 

wanted  to  help.  Gilbert  had  escaped  North  from 
Charleston  by  ship;  but  they'd  traced  him  easy 
enough,  and  he  was  arrested  the  minute  he  stepped 
ashore  at  Boston.  His  master  and  the  witnesses 
he  had  brought  were  there,  all  ready  for  him. 
Of  course,  he  was  being  tried,  over  at  the  court 
house;  but  everybody  knew  that  was  just  a 
form,  and  that  he  would  be  packed  off  South  again 
within  a  week.  The  only  thing  we  could  do  was 
to  turn  law-breaker  and  rescue  him  by  force,  and 
that  was  just  what  Mr.  Phillips  and  the  rest  were 
planning  for.  They  set  the  rescue  for  Tuesday 
night,  the  i4th  of  April.  There  was  to  be  a  big 
Abolition  meeting  in  Faneuil  Hall,  and  at  a  given 
signal,  in  Mr.  Ph  Hips'  speech,  a  lot  of  us  were  to 
jump  up,  shouting,  and  offer  to  run  to  the  court 
house  and  rescue  Gilbert.  Of  course,  the  whole 
crowd  would  catch  fire  and  follow,  and  we'd  over 
power  the  police  and  hustle  Gilbert  aboard  the 
Underground,  before  the  town  would  know  what 
was  afoot.  Well,  you've  heard  the  whole  story,  of 
course.  The  scheme  was  good  enough;  but  we 
were  all  thumbs  when  it  came  to  carrying  it  out. 
Half  a  dozen  of  us  fought  our  way  into  the  court 
house,  but  the  police  held  the  inside  stairs,  and 
before  we  could  break  our  way  up,  an  extra  body  of 
officers  came  thundering  up  the  steps  behind  us, 
from  outside,  and  there  we  were,  caught  like  rats 
in  a  trap.  We  were  pretty  badly  mauled,  too, 
before  we  gave  up.  All  Boston  was  laughing  at  us 


The  Pilgrims  of  '56  259 

next  day;  and  we  felt  pretty  sheepish  ourselves, 
besides  our  disappointment  over  our  failure.  Mr. 
Phillips  came  down  and  bailed  me  out,  next  morning. 
I  had  a  broken  wrist,  and  a  sprained  knee,  and  I 
was  in  a  hurry  to  get  home  and  be  fussed  over. 
You  see,  it  hadn't  occurred  to  me  then  that  after 
that  performance,  I  needn't  expect 

"  Oh,  well !  Mr.  Phillips  would  insist  on  helping 
me  down  the  court-house  steps  as  we  came  away; 
it  was  a  rainy  morning,  and  I  wasn't  steady  on  my 
feet.  We  got  clear  to  the  bottom  of  the  steps 
before  I  saw  my  father.  He  stood  there  on  the 
curb,  holding  his  horse  by  the  bits ;  he  had  ridden  in 
from  the  Neck,  and  he  was  splashed  to  the  waist 
with  mud.  First  thing  I  said  was,  '  Hullo !  You 
must  have  taken  the  marsh  short  cut.'  And  then  I 
looked  up  and  saw  his  face.  He  had  a  little  pearl- 
knobbed  riding-whip  I  had  given  him  for  Christmas 
in  his  hand.  And  then — oh,  Lord  !" 

The  boy's  face  was  only  a  dim  blur  in  the  darkness. 
Yet  Channing  turned  his  head  away  and  stared  at 
the  slow-kindling  east. 

"It  took  me  a  minute  or  so  to  realise  what  had 
happened.  Mr.  Phillips  tumbled  me  into  a  carriage 
and  took  me  straight  to  his  house.  I  remember 
his  wiping  the  blood  off  my  face  with  his  hand 
kerchief,  and  swearing  at  the  driver  for  not  going 
faster.  They  say  Mr.  Phillips  never  swears ;  he  did 
that  time,  all  right.  I  was  so  astonished  at  him 
that  I  didn't  think  of  anything  else  for  a  while. 


260  Diane 

"  By  the  next  day  things  had  come  to  me  clearly. 
I  didn't  want  to  figure  it  out  alone.  I  went  straight 
down  to  Newburyport,  and  found  Harriet.  We 
had  been  engaged  for  a  year,  then,  and  we'd  planned 
to  be  married  this  fall.  I  was  to  take  my  degree 
from  Harvard  this  month,  you  know. 

"I  didn't  have  to  tell  her  all  of  what  had  hap 
pened;  somehow  she — she  knew.  I  was  for  going 
to  work  right  away,  and  putting  off  our  wedding 
till  I  had  something  saved  up;  I  hadn't  a  hundred 
dollars,  and  she  had  just  the  little  handful  she  had 
saved  for  her  wedding  clothes.  But  Harriet — she's 
different,  you  know.  She's  not  a  bit  like  other 
women.  There  never  was  anybody  like  her. 

"Her  aunt  was  very  good  to  us  both.  We  were 
married  that  week,  at  her  house;  Harriet  spent  her 
money  on  chairs  and  things — those  pieces  lashed 
on  the  back  of  our  wagon,  you  know;  and  I  sold  a 
little  piece  of  land  my  mother  had  left  me,  the  only 
thing  I  owned,  so  we'll  have  enough  to  keep  us 
from  starving  till  our  first  crops  come  in.  I  worked 
two  months  in  Mr.  Garrison's  office,  till  this  train 
was  ready  to  start;  then  we  packed  up  and  joined 
them.  And  here  we  are.  Most  likely  my  father 
and  the  giris  are  pitying  us  this  very  minute." 
He  laughed,  shyly  exultant.  His  face  shone 
radiant  in  the  first  dim  glow  of  the  dawn.  "Oh,  it 
was  bad  enough  while  it  lasted,  to  meet  my  father's 
friends — men  who  had  patted  me  on  the  head  and 
dropped  pennies  down  my  back  when  I  was  in 


The  Pilgrims  of  '56  261 

dresses — and  have  them  push  past  me  without  a 
word.  And  my  professors,  too.  Half  of  them  cut 
me  when  I  met  them,  crossing  the  Delta.  But  as 
Harriet  says,  we're  living  our  own  life,  not  theirs; 
and  they'll  wake  up,  too,  some  day.  I  ought  to  be 
unhappy  about  it,  I  dare  say.  I  can't,  though. 

"We've  drawn  the  plans  for  our  cabin  already. 
I'll  show  them  to  you  to-morrow.  And  she's  to 
have  a  flower-garden,  right  up  around  the  house* 
and  a  grape-arbour  on  the  west  side,  and  a  honey 
suckle  on  the  east.  We  brought  the  roots  and 
shoots,  all  tied  up  under  one  of  those  chairs.  I 
have  apple-  and  pear-trees,  too,  not  as  high  as  your 
knee,  of  course;  but  they'll  grow.  We're  going  to 
finish  off  one  room  in  the  loft,  and  you  remember, 
you're  to  come  and  stay  with  us,  whenever  you 
possibly  can.  I  want  you  to  feel  it's  your  home, 
too." 

Charming  tried  to  thank  him;  the  words  died  in 
his  throat.  Perhaps  a  throb  of  envy  kept  him 
silent  before  the  boy's  rapturous  vision.  How 
slender  a  foundation  sustained  their  golden  castle ! 
Yet  they  planned  their  new  life  in  this  hut  which 
he  should  build  as  a  prince's  children  might  plan 
to  enter  upon  their  royal  inheritance.  Joy  walked 
with  them.  Friends  and  home  might  lie  far  behind ; 
the  new  real  home,  the  work  of  their  united  hands, 
awaited  them,  beautiful  beyond  imagining — unut 
terably  more  dear. 

Directed  by  the  letters  which  he  found  awaiting 


262  Diane 

him  in  the  surveyor's  tent,  Channing  joined  the 
emigrant  train,  as  a  member  of  its  defending  force, 
and  rode  with  it  the  six  hundred  miles  to  the  Ne 
braska  border.  The  days  sped  uneventfully,  yet 
from  gray  dawn  to  grayer  dusk  the  travellers  were 
on  the  alert.  There  was  much  ground  for  misgiving. 
The  three  trains  preceding  had  been  stopped  at  the 
Missouri  River  by  armed  bands  of  pro -slavery- 
raiders;  their  goods  had  been  seized,  their  horses 
stolen;  their  lives  had  been  spared  only  upon  the 
promise  that  they  would  make  no  more  attempts 
to  enter  the  Territory.  However,  this  caravan 
journeyed  under  a  lucky  star.  No  roving  bands 
molested  it,  save  early  one  crisp  morning,  when 
the  emigrants,  awakened  by  the  thunder  of  rushing 
hoofs  and  the  clatter  of  shots,  sprang  from  their 
wagons  to  see  their  boyish  guards  madly  pursuing 
a  herd  of  panic-stricken  buffalo.  The  women  ex 
claimed  and  marvelled;  the  men  laughed  till  the 
tears  came  at  their  wild  manoeuvres,  their  vast 
and  futile  volleys,  the  ferocity  of  their  attack,  their 
meek  return,  empty-handed.  Alas  for  pride  of 
rank  and  blazon  of  buttons !  A  cold-blooded 
traveller  from  New  London,  Connecticut,  was  heard 
to  avow  that  ef  he  couldn't  hit  a  caow  two  feet 
from  the  muzzle  of  his  rifle,  he'd  give  up  that  he 
was  too  young  fer  anything  that  dangersome,  an'  go 
back  to  a  bow  an'  arrer. 

They    crossed    the    Missouri    by    rope-ferry    at 
Council  Bluffs.     The  sight  of  a  river  once  more. 


The  Pilgrims  of  '56  263 

even  this  black,  turbulent  stream,  delighted  them 
beyond  bounds.  Channing  found  himself  sighing 
in  absurd  relief  as  he  stood  looking  down  at  the  dingy 
flood.  He  had  not  known  how  this  endless  fort 
night  of  prairie  and  sky  had  worn  on  him.  It 
seemed  now  as  though  he  stood  in  the  real  world 
once  again,  after  interminable  wanderings  on  a 
bald  new  planet,  where  the  sun  rose  and  the  sun  set 
by  solemn  clockwork,  with  neither  trees  nor  hills 
nor  streams  as  yet  constructed,  to  rest  the  aching 
eye. 

Another  day's  ride  left  the  homelike  hills  far 
behind.  They  were  deep  in  the  real  prairie  now — 
a  flowing,  grassy  sea,  shot  with  fleeting  lights  and 
shadows,  billowing  to  the  saddle-girth.  The  wind 
blew  ceaselessly,  pure  and  cold  and  strong;  one 
breathed  deep  of  its  tonic  balm.  The  air  flashed 
diamond-clear. .  Mysterious  visions  limned  them 
selves  on  the  flaring  sunset  sky;  a  cluster  of  white 
tents,  filed  close  to  a  stream,  like  thirsty  sheep 
awaiting  their  turn;  Indian  wigwams,  huddled 
beneath  the  shoulder  of  a  hill;  a  fair  city,  roofed  in 
silver,  its  streets  a  pave  of  pearl.  Strung  tense  by 
their  long,  exciting  journey,  the  emigrants  grew 
wild  as  children  as  they  neared  their  goal.  Every 
trifle  was  a  portent;  every  mirage  was  a  prophecy. 

A  few  miles  west  of  Plymouth,  a  tiny  Free-State 
settlement  just  over  the  border,  they  met  with  odd 
fellow-travellers.  Their  wagon,  a  high -geared  prairie 
schooner,  was  fitted  neatly  with  stove  and  bunks; 


264  Diane 

a  surveyor's  chart  and  instruments  were  lashed  at 
the  side.  Two  men  walked  at  the  horses'  heads; 
the  third,  a  spare,  elderly  man,  dressed  in  coarse 
jeans,  white-haired  and  wearing  a  patriarchal 
beard,  clambered  from  the  high  seat  and  came 
to  talk  with  the  emigrant  leaders.  He  and  his  sons 
were  Free-State  men,  he  announced,  on  their  way 
to  Lawrence.  He  had  heard  that  this  train  was 
bound  for  Lawrence,  also.  Could  he  not  join  it? 
To  be  sure,  their  journey  would  be  short ;  Lawrence 
was  only  three  days  away.  But  the  road  from 
here  on  swarmed  with  border  ruffians,  and  he  would 
be  very  grateful  for  the  protection  which  their  escort 
would  give. 

The   leaders   frowned   and   whispered  together. 
Channing,  who  had  been  beckoned  into  their  circle, 
shared  the  general  distrust. 

"It  ain't  no  way  to  do,  you  mind  that,"  insisted 
the  chief  guide.  He  fingered  the  clamps  of  his 
knife-belt  nervously;  a  dull  flush  reddened  his 
bronzed  face.  "How  do  we  know  he  ain't  one  o' 
Buford's  spies?  What's  ter  prove  that  surveyin' 
kit  ain't  jest  a  blind?  No,  sirree.  Leave  him 
behind  an'  tell  him  to  stay  a  good  way  behind.  We 
don't  want  no  night  attackt." 

"He  appears  a  worthy  man,"  said  the  Emigrant 
Aid  clergyman.  "His  face  looks  to  be  one  worth 
trusting,  and  his  language " 

"That's  why  I  object  to  him,"  said  the  treasurer, 
tartly.  "He's  too  slick.  He's  no  jay-hawk  sur- 


The  Pilgrims  of  '56  265 

veyor.  He'll  find  out  how  many  there  are  of  us, 
and  just  what  equipment  and  guns  we  carry,  and 
report  it  all  to  the  Buford  crowd  within  twenty -four 

hours.     We  can't  be  too  careful -" 

''You're  too  danged  careful!"  bellowed  a  big- 
hearted  lumberman,  who  shared  the  counsels  un 
asked.  "Let  the  old  feller  be.  We're  a  nice, 
dilicate  set,  ef  we  can't  pertect  ourselves  agin  one 
old  man  an'  two  cubs  an'  a  team  of  spavined  crow- 
bait  like  their 'n.  Ef  you're  goin'  to  be  narvous,  I'll 
stay  up  nights  and  keep  an  eye  on  him  myself, 

an' " 

"Captain  Channing,  what  do  you  say?" 
Channing  started  as  from  absorbing  thought. 
A  hazy  vision  drifted  before  his  eyes :  a  great  arched 
hall,  dusk  in  the  twilight  of  storm ;  a  mighty  audience, 
crowded  silent  about  a  dais,  their  faces  blurred  wan 
and  featureless,  a  phantasmal  company.  From 
the  high  stage,  the  speaker's  voice  shrilled  harsh 
through  the  deepening  gloom.  Close  to  him,  on  a 
bench  near  the  door,  shone  the  glint  of  a  scarlet 
cloak,  the  gleam  of  a  child's  fair  head.  What  was 
he  saying  ?  The  words  rang  over  and  over,  clashing 
like  base  metals,  hollow,  resounding.  "Liberty, 
Fraternity,  Equality  .  .  .  are  for  those  who 
can  live  up  to  their  high  demands."  .  .  .  "Come 
to  us  when  you  shall  have  earned  the  right  to 

Brotherhood!"     .     .     .     "Ask- " 

"What  had  we  better  say,  Captain?" 

"Wait  a  minute,"  muttered  Channing,  stupidly. 


266  Diane 

He  groped  for  the  link  which  must  associate  this 
memory  with  the  face  of  the  old  surveyor.  "Wait 
a  minute.  I — I  don't  know.  It  hardly  seems  fair 
to  refuse,  when  he  may  be  all  right.  Suppose 
we  risk  it?" 

Some  little  argument  ensued,  but  in  the  end  the 
leaders  agreed  to  take  the  chances.  The  surveyors 
were  pleased  and  grateful.  One  boy  insisted  upon 
helping  to  pitch  the  tents;  the  other  declared  him 
self  a  master  cook,  and  proved  his  boast  by  broiling 
prairie-chickens  and  frying  flapjacks  which  won 
howls  of  praise  from  the  lumbermen.  The  old 
man  lined  his  wagon  up  into  the  hollow  square  in 
which  all  the  vehicles  were  arranged  for  the  night, 
and  helped  about  the  nightly  chores  till  the  camp 
was  completed.  Unlike  his  sons,  he  was  grimly 
taciturn;  Channing 's  advances  were  met  by  nods 
or  by  thwarting  silence.  At  length,  when  there 
was  no  more  work  to  be  done,  he  turned  to  the 
leader,  and  offered  to  take  a  watch. 

"We  won't  need  ye,"  snapped  the  chief  guide. 
"We'd  druther  have  our  own  sure  men,  if  the  road 
is  as  full  of  raiders  as  ye  say." 

"I'd  like  someone  to  share  my  watch,"  said 
Channing,  hastily.  "I'm  on  from  twelve  till  two, 
and  that's  a  good  hour  to  be  careful  in.  We'd 
better  have  an  extra  man  on." 

The  surveyor  turned  his  head  and  looked  at 
Channing  without  speaking.  Again  the  wide,  dim 
audience-room  swam  before  his  eyes;  the  orator's 


The  Pilgrims  of  '56  267 

voice  pealed  shrill  above  the  clamour  of  wind  and 
hail  without.  Why  should  this  colourless  incident 
recall  that  wretched  morning  ?  What  likeness  could 
this  dull,  churlish  stranger  bear  to  that  beguiling 
despot,  Pere  Cabet? 

"Well,  ef  you  want  somebody  with  you,  Cap'n, 
I  s'pose  it'll  be  all  right,"  said  the  guide,  grudgingly. 
"Perlite  old  hickory,  isn't  he?"  For  the  surveyor 
had  turned  back  to  his  wagon  without  a  word. 

"He's  all  right,"  said  Channing,  yet  without  con 
fidence.  He  grappled  hopelessly  with  baffling  recol 
lection. 

The  last  red  faded  from  the  west ;  the  camp-fires 
sank  to  drifts  of  milky  ash,  dim-flickering  with  rosy 
cores  of  flame.  Channing  climbed  to  his  bunk  in 
one  of  the  broad  white  wagons,  and  fell  asleep  before 
the  men  in  the  bunk  opposite  had  ceased  to  wrangle 
over  the  surveyor  and  his  possible  aim.  He  slept 
so  heavily  that  he  did  not  waken  at  the  clatter  of 
approaching  hoofs ;  neither  did  he  hear  the  sentry's 
yell  of  warning.  The  flash  of  a  lantern  in  his  eyes 
and  a  heavy  hand  on  his  neck  snatched  him  at  last 
to  dizzy  consciousness.  He  sat  up,  blinking. 

"Oh,  ye  air  a'wakin'  up!"  The  guide's  voice 
snarled  with  shrill  derision  above  its  angry  fear. 
"  'Spose  ye  thought  ye'd  lay  low  an'  dodge  the  fuss, 
maybe.  Here's  a  passel  of  Shannon's  milish,  here 
to  search  the  camp,  a'huntin'  them  Pottawatomie 
outlaws.  Turn  out,  quick.  We've  got  ter  fall 
inter  line,  I  tell  ye." 


268  Diane 

The  camp  was  a  bedlam  of  shouts  and  oaths  and 
outcries.  The  horses,  terrified  by  the  uproar,  were 
plunging  back  and  forth  in  the  wagon-fenced  camp 
ground;  women's  voices  implored  shrill  questions,  or 
shrieked  for  unreasoning  panic ;  the  wails  of  the 
children,  half -a  wakened,  and  the  harsh  commands  of 
half  a  dozen  self-appointed  leaders  swelled  the  din. 

Outside  the  square,  perhaps  a  hundred  yards  away, 
a  group  of  dragoons  sat  motionless,  dark  against 
the  stars.  Lanterns  bobbed  back  and  forth  between 
the  camp  and  the  waiting  group,  like  a  swarm  of 
demented  fire -flies.  As  Channing  slid  to  the  ground, 
he  heard  young  Mrs.  Hurlburt's  voice  ripple  high 
and  clear,  the  one  cool,  merry  note  in  all  the  clamour. 

1  'Tom!  Tommy!  Wait,  here's  your  muffler, 
Why,  what's  the  hurry  ?  It's  only  a  court-martial." 

Channing  caught  Hurlburt's  arm  as  he  jumped 
down  the  steps.  The  two  men  ran  at  the  heels  of 
the  crowd  to  the  leader's  wagon.  "Jolly,  isn't  it?'1 
laughed  young  Hurlburt,  boyishly  delighted.  "We 
just  needed  this  adventure  to  spice  the  trip.  Hullo, 
there  goes  your  friend,  the  spy!" 

The  surveyor  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  young  Federal  officer,  who  sat, 
revolver  in  hand,  in  a  ring  of  flaring  torches.  His 
gray  head  towered  above  the  jostling  mob;  his 
erect  silence  challenged  the  surging  uproar.  Again 
Channing  struggled  in  the  web  of  bewildering  con 
jecture.  What  could  the  association  be?  Why 
could  he  not  remember? 


The  Pilgrims  of  '56  269 

"Gentlemen,  give  me  your  attention,  please." 
The  officer  rose  in  his  stirrups.  "I  have  had 
certain  word  that  a  party  of  Free-State  sharp 
shooters  disbanded  to-day  on  this  road,  somewhere 
between  here  and  Plymouth.  Among  them  was 
John  Brown,  the  outlaw.  I  want  him.  Now,  if  he 
has  taken  shelter  with  you  men,  or  if  any  of  you 
have  seen  him,  own  up  to  it." 

There  was  a  pause.  The  men  stared  from  one  to 
another,  in  blank  astonishment.  Then,  like  the  stir 
of  wind  through  leaves,  peering  surmise  flashed 
from  eye  to  eye. 

"He's  not  here,"  said  the  Emigrant  Aid  officer, 
boldly.  "We're  peaceable  men;  we're  on  our  way 
to  Lawrence,  to  take  up  farm  claims  there.  We 
haven't  seen  anything  of  that  gang " 

"I'm  asking  you  if  you've  seen  John  Brown," 
said  the  lieutenant,  tartly.  "Of  anybody  who 
might  be  him,  for  that  matter.  Come,  now." 

No  one  spoke.  Yet  the  eyes  of  all  turned  to  the 
old  surveyor.  For  a  moment,  he  stood  unmoved 
before  their  pointing  glances ;  then  he  pushed  to  the 
front  of  the  crowd. 

"They  picked  me  up  this  afternoon,  Cap'n,"  he 
spoke  with  a  deep,  uncouth  drawl.  "  Mebbe  they're 
holdin'  back  fer  fear  I'm  the  party  wanted." 

"You,  you  old  border  skate!"  retorted  the 
lieutenant.  "You're  the  very  man  who  put  me 
on  Brown's  trail.  Come  now,  men.  Speak  up." 

"We  have  met  no  one  these  three  days,  except 


270  Diane 

this  man,"  declared  the  Emigrant  Aid  clergyman. 
"  Your  party  may  have  passed  us  during  the  night, 
or  by  another  road.  We  know  nothing  more.  This 
man  and  his  two  sons  met  us  this  afternoon  and 
asked  permission  to  travel  in  our  company.  No 
one  else  has  joined  us  since  we  left  Iowa." 

The  clergyman's  voice  carried  weight.  The  officer 
pondered  a  moment;  he  gave  a  curt  order  to  his 
squad:  in  a  moment's  time,  the  camp  was  sur 
rounded.  Two  soldiers  searched  the  wagons,  swiftly 
and  thoroughly.  The  emigrants  stood  to  one  side, 
and  watched  this  domiciliary  visit  with  faces 
angry  or  stoical,  as  the  case  might  be.  Channing 
alone  was  deaf  and  blind  to  the  confusion.  The 
tumult  in  his  own  mind  was  absorbing  enough;  he 
fought  for  memory  as  a  drowning  man  fights  for  a 
plank. 

John  Brown,  the  outlaw! 

It  could  not  be.  John  Brown  had  sat  beside  him 
at  Friend  Barclay's  table.  He  had  talked  with 
him  during  all  that  long  tramp  through  the  fields  to 
the  Phalanstery.  Every  line  of  his  harsh,  spare 
face,  every  tone  of  his  resounding  voice,  was  stamped 
upon  Channing's  senses.  To  be  sure,  there  was  a 
resemblance.  This  man  was  tall,  harsh-featured, 
deeply  bronzed.  He  moved  with  the  same  stiff, 
formal  gait,  the  walk  of  a  man  more  at  home  in  the 
saddle  than  afoot ;  his  voice  carried  the  same  deep, 
reverberating  note.  But  the  surveyor  was  the 
older,  by  twenty  years,  It  was  not  alone  the  gray 


The  Pilgrims  of  '56  271 

hair  and  the  snowy  beard  which  marked  the  differ 
ence.  It  was  the  indefinable,  piteous  capitulation 
of  age.  Ashen  hollows  deepened  the  gaunt  temples; 
the  big  shoulders  were  erect  with  the  erectness  born 
of  conscious  effort,  not  unconscious  strength.  It 
could  not  be. 

The  dragoons  gave  over  their  search  at  last,  and 
rode  away,  leaving  wild  disarray  of  pots  and  kettles 
and  household  gear  in  their  wake.  Like  swarming 
bees,  the  emigrants  settled  themselves  for  the 
moiety  of  night  remaining;  grateful  quiet  brooded 
over  the  camp  once  more.  Channing  knelt  down 
near  a  smouldering  log,  and  looked  at  his 
watch.  It  was  not  worth  while  to  go  back  to 
his  bunk;  he  was  due  on  his  patrol  in  less  than 
an  hour. 

A  hand  shut  lightly  over  his  arm.  He  looked  up, 
startled,  into  the  surveyor's  face.  The  steel-blue 
eyes  flashed  greeting;  the  deep  voice,  lowered  to  a 
booming  whisper,  filled  his  ear. 

"  So  you  have  forgotten  me  already,  young  man  ? 
Or  did  you  hold  your  tongue  to  save  me  ? " 

"  Captain ! "     Channing  leaped  to  his  feet. 

"  Quiet,  now.  Come  over  here  with  me.  I  don't 
want  to  talk  on  the  windward  side  of  the  camp." 

They  sat  down  together  by  the  farthest  heap  of 
embers,  now  waking  to  fitful  glow  beneath  the  soft 
night-breeze.  There  was  no  moon;  the  stars  hung 
poised  and  trembling,  mysteriously  bright.  The 
wind  rose  and  fell,  murmured  and  was  silent,  like 


272  Diane 

a  living  creature,  tossing  in  restless  sleep.  From 
time  to  time  long  gusts  swept  their  faces — the  wild 
sweet  gale  of  the  prairie  sea. 

"  I  suppose  I  was  blind,"  said  Channing,  presently. 
"I  can  see  now  that  the  false  beard  is  the  only 
change.  But  you  look  older,  somehow." 

"I  am  older."  Brown  removed  the  beard,  and 
rubbed  his  face  vigorously  with  his  handkerchief. 
The  gray  hollows  vanished  promptly ;  but  weariness 
was  written  deep  beneath  his  eyes.  "  It  was  a  good 
disguise,  though.  I  am  glad  that  you  have  come. 
We  need  you.  This  country  is  in  a  tight  place, 
young  man." 

"I'm  ready,  sir." 

"  You  may  as  well  keep  on  as  you  have  done  this 
time;  go  back  and  forth  from  Iowa  City  as  a  guard 
for  the  trains.  I'll  send  you  extra  men  as  fast  as  I 
can;  you  will  need  a  larger  force  as  the  season 

advances.  By  November But  it  will  be  all 

settled  by  then. 

"  I  am  recruiting  a  company  of  my  own,"  he  said, 
after  a  while.  " I  have  only  ten  names,  so  far;  but 
I  have  tried  them.  They  are  true  metal.  We 
cannot  win  this  thing  by  numbers.  But  a  few 
men,  in  the  right,  and  knowing  they  are  right,  can 
sweep  everything.  It's  the  cause  that  counts. 
See  here." 

He  pulled  a  little  manuscript-book  from  his 
pocket.  Channing  stooped  and  read  its  blurred 
pages  by  the  dying  light. 


The  Pilgrims  of  '56  273 

"Orderly  Book  of  the  Free-State  Volunteers," 
he  read.  "We,  the  undersigned,  do  hereby  pledge 
ourselves:  To  refrain  from  the  use  of  tobacco  and 
strong  drink ;  to  keep  the  Sabbath  holy ;  to  maintain 
our  speech  free  from  evil  language;  to  obey  the 
dictates  of  conscience,  not  the  Laws  of  Man;  to 
devote  our  lives  and  our  Powers  to  the  Salvation  of 
the  Territory  of  Kansas  as  a  Free  State." 

"This  is  your  Regimental  Compact,  Captain?" 

"Yes.  The  men  will  keep  those  oaths,  too.  I'd 
as  soon  have  smallpox  in  my  camp  as  men  of  loose 
morals.  Quality  is  what  will  win  for  us  this  time. 
We  made  out  those  rules  and  swore  to  them  just 
before  I  started  on  this  surveying  trip,  three  weeks 
ago." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  have  been  driving 
through  this  district,  unarmed  and  with  no  guards, 
all  this  time  ?  And  known  as  you  are  known  ! " 

"I  told  you  that  disguise  was  all  right.  It  is 
so  slight  that  nobody  suspected  it.  Then  there 
are  hundreds  of  surveyors  going  the  rounds 
now.  I  made  a  map  of  the  whole  district 
from  the  Missouri  River  to  the  west  edge  of 
the  Shawnee  Reservation.  I  marked  the  favourite 
routes  of  the  Border  Raiders  on  them,  and 
their  forts,  too.  Then  I  sketched  in  Lawrence 
and  the  other  Free -State  settlements,  showing 
the  roads  by  which  they  might  expect  attack. 
See  here." 

Channing  unrolled  the  parchment  eagerly.     His 


274  Diane 

eyes  followed  the  long  finger  as  it  slid  through  the 
maze  of  woven  lines. 

"I  stopped  in  Westport,  the  hottest  pro-slavery 
town  in  Missouri,  for  two  hours  day  before  yesterday, 
on  business."  A  harsh  smile  bent  the  carven  lips. 
"They  knew  who  I  was,  well  enough,  too." 

"  How  dared  you  risk  it  ?  There's  a  reward  up 
for  you,  alive  or  dead,  in  every  one  of  those  towns. 
Didn't  they  try  to  arrest  you?" 

"It  is  perfectly  understood  that  I  will  not  be 
taken."  The  old  face  shadowed  again.  "Then 
there  are  few  men  who  would  run  the  risk  of  trying 
to  seize  me.  A  man  does  not  like  to  chance  his  life 
on  an  act  that  he  knows  is  wrong.  He  does  not 
want  to  meet  Eternity  with  stained  hands." 

The  old  daunting  question  rose  up  and  faced 
Channing  once  again. 

"Somehow,  that  has  been  harder  for  me  to 
decide  than — than  anything  else.  It's  not  easy 
for  me  to  justify  myself  when  I  break  a  law,  when  I 
oppose  the  Government " 

"'Break  a  law?'  You  must  keep  the  Divine 
Law  first.  Then,  if  you  can,  the  human.  As  for 
opposing  the  Government — what  is  Government? 
What's  the  use  of  all  your  fine  schooling  if  you 
can't  answer  me  that  ?  It's  a  system  of  expedients, 
planned  with  a  view  to  giving  liberty  and  justice  to 
all  men,  isn't  it?  And  as  a  part  of  such  a  system, 
you're  bound  to  uphold  it.  Now,  if  the  time  comes 
when  this  system  for  liberty  and  justice  makes  you 


The  Pilgrims  of  '56  275 

its  tool  to  enslave  your  fellow-man,  to  steal  his 
rights,  are  you  a  true  patriot  if  you  obey? 

"I  learned  that  for  myself,  when  I  was  a  boy 
at  home,  during  the  war  of  181 2,"  he  added  presently. 
"  We  lived  near  a  camp  of  instruction,  and  I  saw  a 
great  deal  that  is  not  put  down  in  the  books.  Per 
haps  it  could  not  have  been  written.  To  learn  those 
things,  a  man  must  live  through  them.  It  was  all 
jealousy  and  bitterness  and  waste — such  waste ! 
Youngster  that  I  was,  I  used  to  wonder  if  God  him 
self  would  ever  find  time  to  count  up  the  cost  of  that 
war.  And  I  swore  to  myself  that  no  Government 
should  ever  force  me  to  fight,  unless  in  a  battle  for 
liberty. 

"Talking  of  schooling, "  he  went  on,  after  a  pause, 
"  I've  often  thought  that  if  it  was  only  possible  for 
us  to  teach  the  young  slaves  throughout  the  South 
to  read  and  write,  we  could  bring  about  freedom 
before  the  year  was  out.  Educate  the  young 
slaves !  It  would  be  like  firing  powder  sealed  in 
rock.  As  it  is,  we  must  go  ahead  and  do  by  force 
what  we  cannot  do  by  strategy.  It  is  our  appointed 
task." 

"Then  you  are  ready  for  force,  Captain?" 

The  old  man  turned  upon  him  grandly.  His 
gray  head  bristled;  his  blue  eyes  flashed  beneath 
the  hooding  lids.  The  fire  of  his  vast  consuming 
purpose  lighted  his  gaunt  face.  So  might  the 
flames  of  the  martyr  pile  illumine  the  waiting  face 
above, 


276  Diane 

"I  am  ready  to  do  the  work  that  God  and  my 
reason  set  for  me  to  do.  I  am  an  old  man.  I  have 
no  time  to  halt  and  plan  by  the  way.  I  shall  use 
force,  if  I  must.  There  shall  be  bloodshed,  if  need 
be.  Foi:  this  my  work  must  be  done.  'To  loose 
the  bonds  of  wickedness;  to  let  the  oppressed  go 
free.'" 

A  fairit  bugle-note  echoed  from  the  camp.  It 
was  the  midnight  call ;  the  signal  for  their  watch  to 
begin. 

Shoulder  to  shoulder,  the  two  men  strode  through 
the  knee-deep  grass,  as  the  long  night  waned. 
Sometimes  they  talked,  quietly,  in  the  hushed  voices 
of  men  who  stand  on  the  brink  of  fathomless  steeps. 
Again  they  paced  silent,  the  elder  man  absorbed  in 
his  own  thought,  the  younger  waiting  on  his  will. 
When  he  spoke,  Channing  found  himself  hanging 
breathless,  eager,  on  each  passionless  word.  He 
might  not  believe — he  could  not  endorse — these 
harsh  measures,  this  grim  merciless  ruling;  yet  he 
listened  as  one  listens  to  a  voice  inspired. 

For  more  and  more  he  knew  that  this  man  at 
his  side  spoke  not  as  other  men.  His  calm  was 
the  calm  of  a  soul  consecrate;  his  speech  was  the 
speech  of  the  prophet ;  unheeded,  patient,  re 
lentless. 

1  'It  began  when  I  was  a  little  fellow,  back  in 
Connecticut,"  he  said,  d,s  though  in  reply  to  Chan- 
ning's  unspoken  question.  "I  remember  a  gray 
squirrel  that  I  caught  and  tamed,  when  I  couldn't 


The  Pilgrims  of  '56  277 

have  been  more  than  six;  just  a  little  barefoot 
shaver  I  was,  scooting  around  in  buckskin  breeches, 
with  a  strap  to  hold  them  over  the  shoulder.  I 
made  a  cage  to  keep  the  squirrel  in,  at  first,  but  I 
couldn't  stand  it,  to  keep  him  a  captive;  it  worried 
me  so  much  to  think  how  miserable  he  must  be 
that  I  set  to  work  and  petted  and  fed  him  till  he 
followed  me  around  the  cabin  like  a  puppy.  I 
kept  him  that  way  for  more  than  a  year.  He 
used  to  go  off  on  trips  of  his  own  now  and  then,  but 
he  always  came  back  in  a  day  or  so.  In  winter 
he  slept  in  the  loft  with  me,  curled  up  on  the  scraps 
of  an  old  quilt ;  the  snow  used  to  sift  in  on  both  of 
us,  many  a  time.  A  dog  killed  him  at  last,  poor 
little  rascal.  I  didn't  know  how  to  stand  it.  After 
wards,  I  tried  to  have  other  pets,  but  I  couldn't 
tame  them,  and  I  wouldn't  have  them  in  a  cage. 

"I  was  about  nineteen  before  I  heard  much  of 
slavery.  Then  some  runaways  came  to  our  village, 
on  their  way  up  to  Canada,  and  I  was  one  of  three 
or  four  young  fellows  who  volunteered  to  guard 
them  on  the  twenty-mile  drive  to  the  next  village. 
We  took  them  through  safely,  though  we  had  a 
pitched  battle  with  the  slave-catchers,  and  got  well 
peppered.  I  dare  say  I  enjoyed  the  excitement  of 
it;  but  that  was  not  all.  I  found  my  work,  that 
night.  I  have  never  lost  sight  of  it,  from  that  day 
to  this. 

"We  helped  slaves  through  whenever  we  had  the 
chance.  That  was  not  often,  for  the  Underground 


278  Diane 

routes  were  not  near  us.  It  was  often  enough, 
though,  to.give  us  a  bad  name  among  the  neighbours. 
Time  and  again  I've  driven  into  town  with  a  load 
of  wool,  and  out  of  twenty  men  I  would  meet  at  the 
market,  not  one  would  be  seen  talking  with  me. 
My  wife  could  have  no  friends;  my  children  could 
have  no  playmates.  It  wasn't  easy.  But  we  kept 
on. 

"In  '48  I  took  my  family  to  a  farm  up  in  the 
mountains,  in  New  York,  near  North  Elba.  A  lot 
of  freedmen  had  settled  there,  and  we  went  up  to 
teach  them  farming  and  sheep-raising.  We  stayed 
there  till  '54,  when  my  sons  decided  with  me  that 
we  were  needed  out  here  more  than  there.  We 
made  a  covenant  between  us,  my  boys  and  I,  that 
we  would  hold  together  in  this  work,  without  fail,  no 
matter  what  trials  we  might  have  to  meet.  The 
boys  have  done  their  part.  They  have  been  driven 
out  of  their  burning  cabins,  time  and  again.  Their 
crops  have  been  beaten  down,  their  cattle  stolen; 
but  they  have  never  swerved  from  their  word. 
They're  good  boys. 

"I'm  planning  now  on  a  scheme  that  will  destroy 
slavery  once  and  for  all  time,  if  it  succeeds.  If  I 
fail,  some  wiser  man  will  be  raised  up  to  take  my 
place.  But  it  is  a  good  plan.  I  have  worked  for 
twenty  years  to  make  it  perfect.  I  may  not  live 
to  see  it  go  through.  But  it  will  not  fail." 

Channing  listened,  silent.  And  it  seemed  to  him 
that  the  whole  world  hearkened  also,  finger  on  lip. 


The  Pilgrims  of  '56  279 

The  wind  was  hushed  to  a  whisper ;  the  stars  shone 
pale  on  a  high,  auroral  sky. 

"Ten  men  can  fortify  a  hill,  and  hold  it  against 
ten  thousand,"  the  quiet  voice  went  on.  "And 
when  that  hill  is  bound  by  precipices,  and  covered 
with  laurel  thickets,  close  as  mail,  ten  thousand 
could  not  storm  it.  That  is  my  hope,  to  garrison 
those  hills  in  the  Alleghanies,  and  to  make  fortresses 
of  them  for  hunted  slaves.  The  time  is  not  yet 
ripe.  But — it  will  come ! 

"Here  is  something  that  you  may  like  to  see," 
he  said,  after  a  while.  Channing  fingered  the  little 
volume  curiously.  It  was  a  handful  of  coarse, 
yellowed  sheets,  bound  rudely  with  a  rough  strip  of 
cowhide,  tied  in  place  with  a  leathern  string.  Two 
centuries  of  use  had  worn  the  leather  to  a  silken 
thinness ;  the  paper  was  torn  and  darkly  stained ;  but 
the  type  stared  black  and  clear. 

"The  Souldiers'  Pocket  Bible.  1643,"'  he  read. 
"Why,  it's  the  pocket  Bible  that  Oliver  Cromwell 
had  printed  for  his  troop !  I've  never  seen  a  copy 
before,  though  I've  heard  of  it.  Was  it  a  gift  to 
you?" 

"No.  It  came  to  me  as  inheritance,  from  an 
ancestor  who  was  one  of  Cromwell's  sergeants. 
Read  that." 

" '  Be  valiant  and  fight  the  Lord's  Battels.  Ye 
fhall  not  fear  them,  for  the  Lord  your  God  fhall 
fight  for  you.  Fear  them  not,  for  I  have  given 
them  into  thine  hand. 


s8o  Diane 

" '  And  let  Souldiers  and  all  of  us  confider,  that  the 
Lord  hath  ever  been  accuftomed  to  give  the  victory 
to  a  few.'" 

"I  have  carried  it  with  me  all  these  years,"  he 
said,  tranquilly.  "I  have  read  it  as  I  have  read 
the  stars,  night  after  night,  while  I  lay  on  my 
blanket;  and  the  answer  has  always  come  to  me: 
The  Plan  shall  not  fail.  You  may  perish  as  the 
worm  perishes.  But  the  Plan — the  Plan  shall  never 
fail!" 

Again  the  bugle  summoned  them;  a  clear,  trium 
phant  note,  the  herald  of  the  royal  day.  Shoulder 
to  shoulder,  they  tramped  back  to  the  camp, 
through  the  opal  silence  of  dawn. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
DOOM 

Fleuve  du  Tage, 

Je  fuis  tes  bords  heureux; 

Et  ton  rivage 

J'adresse  mes  adieux. 

Rochers,  bois  de  la  rive, 

Echo,  nymphe  plaintive," — 

ROSE  hummed  the  lilting  lines  softly,  as  she 
turned  the  pages.  It  was  a  quaint  volume,  this 
book  of  chansons,  inscribed  in  flowing  purple  ink 
on  polished  card -board,  the  music  wearily  copied 
from  the  Convent  scrolls  by  dint  of  a  ruler  and  a 
blunt-pointed  quill.  Here  and  there  a  note  leaned 
awry,  where  the  patient  ringers  had  slipped ;  on  one 
bar,  the  treble  clef  was  turned  pathetically  wrong- 
side  before,  like  a  rococo  S.  Around  each  separate 
score  ran  a  tight  and  tidy  wreath,  done  in  water- 
colours,  the  tints  chosen  with  all  the  ardour  of 
inexperience.  Daisies  of  lilacs  twined  with  amber 
violets;  roses  of  that  peculiar  grim  and  slaty  blue 
which  blossoms  only  in  the  samplers  and  the  sketch 
books  of  our  great -aunts,  flaunted  beside  lavender 
carnations  and  saffron  foliage.  The  smooth,  broad 
sheets  were  tied  into  the  embroidered  linen  cover 

281 


282  Diane 

with  crisp  blue  ribbons ;  across  the  back  was  wrought, 
in  dainty  stitches, 

"Diane  de  Lahautiere.  Eleve  du  Sacr6  Cceur. 
1854." 

"  Sing  Fleuve  du  Tage  for  us,  Diane." 

Rose  sat  on  the  cabin  door-stone;  Petit  Clef 
curled  against  her  knee.  Diane  sat  within,  bending 
her  shining  head  over  a  pile  of  accounts.  This 
was,  perhaps,  the  twentieth  morning  which  Rose  had 
spent  at  the  Commune  that  month ;  Diane  had  come 
to  look  upon  her,  not  as  a  guest,  but  as  a  daily 
blessing,  indispensable  as  the  sunlight.  She  looked 
up,  dimpling. 

"Mine  is  a  voice  to  terrify,  Mademoiselle.  I 
would  not  dare  attempt  it." 

"  She  can  shame  the  brown  thrush,  when  she  will. 
But  not  even  the  brown  thrush  would  sing  over  such 
a  confusion."  Petit  Clef  grimaced  irreverently  at 
the  heap  of  papers.  "Leave  those  for  the  Pere 
Cabet." 

"  The  Pere  Cabet  has  no  time  for  them." 

"Neither  have  you.  Come  and  teach  to  us  the 
meaning  of  these  colours,  Mademoiselle.  Is  it  that 
on  the  banks  of  the  Tagus,  all  flowers  change  their 
tint?  How  would  I  admire  to  stroll  beside  it,  and 
to  pluck  blue  rosebuds  and  purple  buttercups!" 

"  If  you  had  been  reared  in  a  convent,  P'tit,  you 
would  have  learned  that  rosebuds  display  what 
ever  colour  you  happen  to  have  remaining  in  your 
paint-box.  When  this  painting  was  given  to  us  as 


Doom  283 

lesson,  Lys  Carrivenc  had  just  received  gift  of  burnt 
almonds  from  home,  and  I  had  bartered  every  colour 
in  my  box  save  the  blues  and  the  yellows,  which  she 
would  not  take,  for  these  delicates  unlawful.  When 
Soeur  Gertrude  has  discovered  this,  she  has  de 
clared  for  punishment  that  I  should  use  only  such 
colours  as  remained  to  me  for  this  whole  work. 
Helas!  I  have  wept  till  I  have  melted  these 
colours,  all;  but  she  remained  steel." 

"  Therefore  I  rejoice  that  I  am  man,  and  heretic. 
What  news  is  there  from  our  other  heretic,  our 
perfidious  M'sieu  Channing?  Have  you  no  word 
of  him,  you,  Mademoiselle?" 

"  My  father  has  heard  nothing,  but  Friend  Barclay 
tells  me  that  he  is  now  busy  in — in  the  work  he  has 
taken  up."  Rose  held  her  voice  to  easy  indiffer 
ence.  This  was  the  first  time  that  Channing 's  name 
had  been  spoken  between  them.  She  did  not 
glance  at  Diane.  "Of  course,  you  know  that  he 
and  my  father  do  not  agree  about  his  plans.  Friend 
Barclay  said  that  he  wrote  very  little — only  that  he 
was  well  and  busy." 

"  There  was  no  message  for  me,  for  his  comrade  ? " 

Rose  checked  her  smile.     "No,  dear." 

"It  is  not  like  M'sieu  Channing  to  forget  old 

friends.     Probably  he  finds  himself  discouraged,  and 

wishes  not  to  confess  as  much  to  us.     Perhaps  he  is 

not  the  first  man  who  has  gone  forth  to  make  a  new 

heaven  and  a  new  earth,  and  finds  his  materials 

rebellious.    Voila  the  Lieutenant  Palmer.     Behold 


284  Diane 

a  wise  man,  who  strays  not  away  on  the  trail  of 
dreams !" 

Palmer  clattered  gaily  up  the  street  on  Rose's 
pony.  A  coil  of  water-lilies,  white  and  poignant- 
sweet,  dripped  over  his  arm.  He  cast  the  flowers 
on  the  scoured  door-stone,  and  looked  up  at  Diane, 
laughing. 

"Can't  I  tempt  you  from  your  work  with  these, 
Mademoiselle?  I  pulled  them  on  my  way  up  from 
the  Point,  and  I  could  have  brought  a  steamer- 
load  if  I'd  waited  to  gather  them.  Come,  let's  all  of 
us  go  for  a  row.  You  haven't  been  out  on  the  water 
for  a  week — not  since  you've  been  staying  with 
Madame.  Petit  Clef,  we  need  you  for  luck.  Come 
on." 

Rose  looked  to  Diane.  Her  fingers  twisted  tightly 
into  the  rope  of  glittering  beads,  which  sorted  so 
oddly  with  her  coarse  white  blouse  and  bodice  of 
peasant -blue.  Petit  Clef  dragged  his  willow  flute 
from  his  pocket  and  played  an  airy  cadence. 

"Behold  my  reply!"  he  said,  pertly.  "It  is,  to 
follow  the  will  of  these,  my  goddesses.  What  say 
you,  Diane?" 

"I  cannot  go,  M'sieu.  I  have  much  of  work  to 
do.  Yet  I  thank  you,  a  thousand  times." 

"But  is  it  so  important?  Can't  you  leave  it  for 
the  day?  Or  let  us  help  you  with  it,  when  we 
come  back?" 

"  It  must  not  be  neglected.  I  would  not  wish  to 
put  it  aside." 


Doom  285 

She  spoke  too  gently  to  give  offence,  but  Rose 
saw  the  hurt  red  stream  to  his  temples.  In  his 
excitement,  he  forgot  the  two  onlookers.  His 
disappointment  flared  out  with  bitter,  boyish 
passion. 

"I'm  going  away  in  just  a  week  or  two — back  to  my 
plantation.  I — you  don't  know  how  much  I  have 
wanted  to  see  more  of  you,  Mademoiselle.  It's 
making  a  lot  of  difference  to  me.  I  think  you  might 
give  me  an  hour  or  so.  It  isn't  fair " 

"M'sieu,  I  have  no  time  to  give.  There  is  much 
for  me  to  do ;  I  am  stupid  and  slow  to  learn.  Truly,  I 
know  that  you  would  wish  to  give  me  pleasure ;  but 
I  have  no  right  to  pleasures  now." 

Palmer  stood  up.  "I'll  go  on,  then,"  he  said, 
shortly.  Rose  would  not  look  his  way,  lest  he 
might  see  the  pity  in  her  eyes;  Petit  Clef 
polished  his  flute  with  fastidious  care.  "I'll 
come  again,  Mademoiselle,  any  time  that  you  are 
willing  to  see  me.  When  the  time  comes  for 
me  to  go,  at  least  you  can  spare  me  five  minutes 
for  good-bye." 

He  lifted  his  cap  to  them  and  rode  away  at  a 
gallop. 

" How  one  misjudges!"  murmured  Petit  Clef 
blandly,  his  sparkling  eyes  fixed  on  the  vanishing 
cloud  of  dust.  "But  one  minute  since,  have  I  not 
declared  that  M'sieu  Palmer  was  never  the  man 
to  go  on  a  will-o'-the-wisp  chase  after  a  dream?" 

Diane  bent  crimson  over  her  papers. 


286  Diane 

"  Diane,  have  you  told  the  Mademoiselle  the  tale 
of  Citoyen  Paul  and  his  son?" 

"I  have  not  heard  it  myself,  P'tit.  Is  it  a  jest 
upon  the  good  Paul,  that  he  so  adores  this  first 
child?  If  it  please  you,  relate  it."  Diane  breathed 
quickly.  Anything  were  welcome  as  a  shift  of 
thought. 

"It  is  hardly  a  jest."  Petit  Clef  stared  away 
across  the  yellowing  August  fields.  The  river 
gleamed  pure  silver  under  far  blue  haze;  the  scent 
of  ripening  grapes  floated  to  them  from  the  terraced 
vineyards  below,  a  deep  sweet  autumn  breath. 
Petit  Clef  inhaled  it  with  supreme  content.  "This 
is  a  good  year,  no  matter  how  hard  we  have  tried 
to  spoil  it,  hein?  Well,  then,  for  Citoyen  Paul. 
You  may  know  that  he  has  been  reared  bon  Catho- 
lique,  like  you,  Mademoiselle.  Probably  in  his 
day  he  has  painted  purple  daisies  on  little  gilt  card 
boards,  too.  And  Angele,  his  wife,  is  even  fonder 
of  her  church  than  he.  She  is  the  only  woman  of 
the  Commune  who  still  tells  her  beads  in  the  hour  of 
recreation.  Also  I  suspect  that  she  spends  more 
time  before  her  chamber  shrine  than  in  pondering 
upon  the  worthy  doctrines  of  Equal  Right  and 
Common  Possession. 

"  Well !  To  them  has  been  born  a  son,  Alexandre 
— the  most  beautiful,  intelligent,  and  virtuous 
child  which  the  Commune  has  yet  seen.  I  know  it, 
for  Citoyen  Paul  himself  told  me  so,  and  Ang61e  did 
not  contradict  him.  According  to  the  custom  of 


Doom  287 

the  Commune,  he  is  welcomed  merely  as  an 
ordinary  infant;  no  ceremonies  honour  him;  no 
christening  feast  is  made.  What  human  parents 
could  endure  such  indifference  towards  their  prodigy  ? 
Especially  when  they  believe,  as  Angele  surely 
believes,  that  without  baptism  his  earthly  life  must 
be  fruitless,  his  future  life  a  torment  ? 

"Therefore,  on  the  last  holiday,  they  took  the 
child  and  slipped  away  to  the  new  little  chapel  of 
Our  Lady,  away  up  the  river.  Most  curious  that 
this  shrine  has  been  built  there,  is  it  not  so  ?  Miles 
from  any  village,  beyond  reach  even  of  the  heathen 
Commune?  And  so  tiny,  a  cloister  for  the  birds, 
the  elves !  But  of  that,  no  matter.  They  met  me 
upon  the  road;  and  the  Citoyen  Paul,  who  feels 
for  me  an  affection  most  preposterous,  insists  that 
I  shall  accompany  them  and  act  as  godfather. 
Thus  is  it  done.  I  will  bear  witness  that  the  young 
Alexandre  has  of  lungs  marvellous;  how  he  has 
howled  when  I  must  support  him,  during  the  service ! 
We  returned  to  the  Commune  without  discovery; 
no  word  was  said.  But  yesterday  Angele,  who 
must  always  relate  that  which  she  knows,  even  to 
the  uttermost  thought,  has  displayed  to  a  neighbour 
the  amulet  which  I  have  tied  about  the  neck  of  my 
godson " 

"  Petit  Clef !  You  do  not  mean  that  you  have 
given  him  that  sapphire  locket !  The  only  treasure 
you  own!" 

"Pouf!"    Petit  Clef  reddened  at  his  own  slip. 


288  Diane 

"It  is  of  no  matter;  besides,  one  must  deal  honestly 
with  the  helpless.  The  scandal  ran  like  fire  through 
the  Commune.  To-day  the  word  was  passed  to  the 
Pere  Cabet.  He  will  be  vexed  with  me  for  my  hand 
in  the  affair ;  Paul  and  Angele,  he  can  never  forgive. 
It  is  a  pity;  parents  should  not  be  so  selfish  for 
their  own.  And  it  will  make  another  leak  in  the 
boat.  We  are  now  a  sundered  world,  as  you  know, 
Mademoiselle  Rose.  Our  party — those  of  us  who 
hold  with  the  Pere  Cabet — sleep  and  eat  in  that 
great  house  yonder,  across  the  road.  The  Majority 
has  seized  the  Phalanstery  and  the  shops,  and  they 
declare  that,  unless  we  yield  and  obey  the  officers 
that  they  have  legally  elected,  our  daily  supply  of 
food  shall  be  cut  off.  We  Cabetists  have  ceased  to 
work  in  the  fields;  we  do  nothing  save  lounge  in 
the  streets  and  hold  meetings  of  protest.  The 
misfortune  is  that  these  wretches,  the  Majority, 
have  all  law  and  justice  on  their  side;  the  perfidy 
of  it !  They  have  offered  compromises,  which  we 
have  spurned;  they  have  a  perfect  right  to  use 
force,  and  we  have  driven  them  to  that  necessity. 
So  to-day  we  have  no  dinner — unless  we  yield. 
True,  our  soft-hearted  enemies  say  that  the  women 
and  children  shall  not  suffer,  whatever  their  beliefs ; 
and  food  will  be  distributed  for  them  from  the 
Phalanstery  steps.  But  we  men  who  have  set  our 
will  against  their  right  shall  be  taught  a  lesson!" 

"  Is  it  as  bad  as  this,  Diane  ?" 

Diane  laid  down  her  pen. 


Doom  289 

"If  you  desire  my  word  confirmed,  ask  the  Pere 
Cabet,  who  approaches,'*  sniffed  Petit  Clef.  "My 
self,  I  go  to  join  him.  He  seeks  my  advice  upon 
affairs  of  state."  He  slid  from  Rose's  hand  to 
clasp  Diane's  neck,  and  lay  a  velvet  cheek  against 
her  pale  one.  Sharp  as  a  woodpecker's  fillip,  his 
crutches  clicked  away  up  the  flagged  street. 

"Come  tell  me  about  it,  dear." 

"There  is  nothing  to  tell,  Mademoiselle.  And 
there  is  nothing  to  be  done.  The  Commune  is  all 
bitterness,  all  discord.  It  can  never  unite  again. 
The  Pere  Cabet  talks  of  taking  us,  his  followers, 
down  the  river,  and  building  another  Commune  in 
the  South." 

"He  will  not  succeed,  dear." 

"  No.  It  will  not  succeed."  Diane's  head  drooped ; 
Rose  studied  the  fair  face,  so  altered  by  these  weeks 
of  grief  and  service.  Sorrow  had  dimmed  her  glow 
and  sparkle,  like  a  tarnishing  brush ;  yet  it  had  left 
her  face  no  older.  It  was  the  face  of  a  frightened 
child  who  peers  deep  into  unfathomable  terrors,  yet 
dares  not  call  for  aid. 

"Are  you  still  determined  not  to  go  back  to 
France,  Diane?" 

"  I  shall  never  leave  the  Pere  Cabet." 

"And  if  he  takes  you  South,  and  then  this  plan 
fails " 

"  Even  then,  I  am  not  afraid.  I  could  teach  the 
French  in  some  school;  I  could  sew,  perhaps.  One 
can  only  wait.  There  is  no  other  thing  to  do." 


290  Diane 

There  was  one  other  thing  to  do,  Rose  thought. 
And  this  one  only  succour  lay  in  her  own  hand  to 
give.  It  must,  it  must  be  yielded.  Reason  and 
justice  demanded  the  sacrifice;  it  lay  in  the  strait 
path  of  Duty.  Though  happiness  was  not  for  her, 
surely  she  could  not  withhold  it  from  another. 
Yet  her  soul  was  sick  within  her.  Renunciation 
meant  the  loss  of  a  lifelong  comradeship ;  the  breaking 
of  ties  terrible  in  their  very  dearness ;  the  wreck  of  a 
hope,  a  dream,  which  she  had  never  dared  confess, 
even  to  her  own  innocent  heart.  The  mere  thought 
of  giving  terrified  her:  the  anticipation,  the  hope 
untold,  had  come  all  unknowingly  to  be  her  food 
and  drink,  her  very  life.  To  snatch  it  away  would 
be  to  snatch  the  earth  from  beneath  her  feet. 

She  had  loved  him  since  that  first  day  when  he 
came  to  play  with  her  in  the  sunny  garden  at 
Belhaven,  a  big,  stumbling  boy  of  fourteen,  strained 
into  the  quaint  nankeen  uniform  of  the  Academy,  his 
slim  insteps  strapped  taut,  his  lanky  wrists  sprouting 
to  amazing  length  beyond  the  outworn  sleeves. 
She  counted  every  look  of  him  as  beads  upon  her 
stainless  rosary.  She  loved  the  memory  of  him 
as  he  had  stood  that  first  luminous  morning,  his 
yellow  hair  brushed  high  into  the  comical  roach  of 
the  day,  his  serious  eyes  waiting  on  her  father  for 
permission  for  some  long-planned  frolic.  She  loved 
his  stubborn  humour,  his  fun  that  could  not  hurt, 
his  clumsy,  chivalrous  ways,  his  will  of  steel.  Under 
his  bashful  gruff  ness  lay  a  nature  tensely  sensitive; 


Doom  20 1 

more  than  once  her  careless  fingers  had  reached 
the  quick.  She  had  stung  him  that  very  day  by 
her  scoff  at  his  unwillingness  to  go  on  the  river  with 
her,  she  remembered  contritely.  He  had  longed  to 
stay  and  hear  her  father  chat  with  his  cronies  of 
the  plans  for  this  incredible  new  railroad,  which 
should  stretch  from  Cincinnati,  that  outpost  of 
civilisation,  to  the  far  mysterious  city,  New  Orleans, 
through  forests  unbroken,  past  rivers  unexplored. 
There  was  talk,  too,  of  a  most  visionary  engineer, 
who  prophesied  that  within  twelve  years'  time  the 
Mississippi,  that  torrent  of  rock  and  slime,  would 
be  cleared  and  made  safe  for  navigation.  What 
right-minded  boy  could  withstand  such  converse  of 
enchantment?  But  she  had  called  him  away,  by 
stress  of  chaff  and  teasing;  she  remembered  how 
he  had  flushed  beneath  her  gibe.  And  she  remem 
bered  how  obstinately  he  had  shouldered  all  the 
blame  in  the  accident  which  followed;  how  angry 
he  had  been  with  her  for  her  insistent  sharing. 

He  had  come  again,  each  year,  for  the  short  visit 
with  his  guardian,  which  the  Academy  permitted. 
Hand  in  hand  they  had  crept  through  the  great  dim 
warehouses,  ranked  like  stately  ships  along  the 
Potomac  shore.  They  had  tiptoed  through  vast, 
echoing  store-rooms ;  they  had  climbed  the  crumbling 
ladders ;  they  had  whispered  together  of  the  far  days 
when  these  still,  desolate  rooms  had  been  the 
treasury  of  a  nation.  Together  they  had  breathed 
the  lingering,  ancient  scents  of  corn  and  oils  and 


292  Diane 

resinous  wood ;  of  tropic  fruits  and  spices ;  of  musky 
silks,  of  wines,  of  aromatic  herbs;  that  mellowed 
perfume  of  the  years,  the  one  treasure  that  this 
rifled  chest  still  hoarded. 

They  had  gone  to  the  warehouses  in  later  summers, 
teasing  gay  girl  and  shy  youth.  He  had  come  to 
her  with  every  thought  and  plan;  they  had  talked 
his  matters  frankly,  yet  with  brusque  reticence,  like 
two  boys.  She  was  always  the  swifter  in  speech 
and  thought ;  now  and  then  she  scolded  him  roundly 
for  his  lumbering  comprehension,  while  she  exulted 
within  herself  at  the  deep  mastery  and  slow,  un 
yielding  grasp  which  made  all  things  his  own  in  his 
good  time.  She  had  shared  his  disappointments, 
she  had  furthered  his  hopes;  she  had  lived  his  life. 
Could  these  strong-woven  fibres,  knit  close  by  time 
and  blood  and  common  grief  and  joy,  be  torn  apart 
by  any  human  hand  ?  And  by  a  hand  so  small  and 
frail  and  childlike  as  this  one  which  clasped  her 
own? 

"  You  are  tired,  Mademoiselle." 

"Not  a  bit,  Diane.  Put  the  work  away,  dear. 
Child,  why  do  you  wear  those  sabots  !"  Diane  had 
stumbled  painfully  to  her  feet;  the  clumsy  wooden 
shoes  chafed  her  instep  and  impeded  every  move 
ment.  "What  good  does  it  do?  And  the  dress!'* 

"  Truly,  it  does  little  good,  Mademoiselle."  Diane 
smoothed  down  the  coarse  blue  folds.  "Yet  in 
these  months  since  I  have  dressed  and  lived  as  my 
sisters  of  the  Commune,  they  no  longer  seem  to  feel 


Doom  293 

towards  me  so  great  a  bitterness.  They  even  trust 
me  with  matters  most  precious." 

"So  I  have  heard.  They  let  you  slave  alone  in 
the  sewing-room  while  they  run  away  to  gossip 
over  the  Commune,  and  leave  the  work  for  you. 
They  let  you  sit  at  night  with  the  sick,  while  they 
sleep  or  steal  down  to  the  dance.  They  are  very 
generous,  Diane." 

"It  is  only  that  they  know  I  love  the  work. 
Until  this  time,  I  have  never  done  my  share.  It  is 
kind  that  they  do  not  taunt  me  with  that.  And 
I  have  asked  the  privilege  of  caring  for  poor  Leon. 
He  will  take  his  bitter  medicine  from  no  other  hand ; 
he  loves  to  have  me  touch  him.  I  would  rather  care 
for  him  than  do  any  other  thing." 

"Leon  is  a  dear  little  boy.  But  do  you  love  to 
care  for  Mere  Maturin,  who  snarls  at  you  like  a 
cross  cat?  Do  you  enjoy  waiting  on  old  Mere 
Beuve,  who  rails  at  the  Pere  Cabet  every  minute 
that  you  are  there  to  hear  ?  Or  Citoyenne  Lucie  ? 
Or  that  poor  baby  of  Hortense's?" 

Diane  was  ordering  the  work  upon  her  desk. 
"I  must  see  no  difference,  Madame,"  she  whispered 
low.  "I  must  say  to  myself:  'These  are  my 
sisters  and  my  brothers.  They  can  do  no  wrong/ 
I  must  remember — Mademoiselle !  Hark ! " 

Rose  sprang  up;  the  two  girls  listened,  awe 
struck,  amazed.  Through  the  sweet  autumn  air 
it  pealed  again,  that  note,  silenced  through  so  many 
weeks  of  strife  and  hatred ;  for  the  first  time  since  the 


294  Diane 

June  night  when  the  Commune  had  risen  and  dis 
owned  the  rule  of  Pere  Cabet,  man  for  man;  they 
heard  now  the  Phalanstery  bell. 

Before  the  breach  its  sound  had  meant  the 
summoning  of  a  united  Colony ;  the  wild  hope  came 
that  this  peal  might  herald  reconciliation.  Yet  be 
neath  its  vibrant  chime  rolled  a  low  sinister  tone; 
the  moan  of  warning :  the  palpitating  beat  of  fear. 

Rose  snatched  her  hat  and  her  whip  from  the 
table,  while  Diane  thrust  the  documents  into  a 
drawer  and  turned  the  key.  Driven  by  unspoken 
dread,  they  ran  tripping  and  stumbling  through 
the  vineyards  and  across  the  stubble-fields  to  the 
Phalanstery.  From  door  to  door  the  women 
huddled,  in  whispering  groups;  they  turned,  staring, 
as  the  two  girls  fled  past.  Afterwards  Rose  re 
membered,  as  one  recalls  an  evil  dream,  how  pallid 
were  those  gaping  faces,  how  stark  those  pointing 
hands :  how  yellow  and  unreal  the  sunshine  lay. 

On  the  top  step  of  the  Phalanstery  stood  Adolphe 
Gerard,  leader  of  the  Majority.  His  dark,  boyish 
face  was  drawn  and  gray;  his  eyes  glittered.  The 
sheet  of  paper  in  his  hands  shook  like  the  wind 
blown  twigs  above  him.  At  his  side  stood  a  great 
osier  tray,  covered  with  white  linen. 

At  the  foot  of  the  steps  on  his  right  were  ranked 
his  partisans,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  a  menacing 
phalanx.  Directly  opposite  stood  another  group, 
massed  defiantly,  yet  piteously  few.  Pere  Cabet 's 
splendid  head  towered  above  the  ring  of  his  disciples ; 


Doom  295 

lifted  against  his  shoulder,  Rose  caught  a  glimpse 
of  a  fair,  shining  head,  a  white  petal  of  a  hand 
clasping  the  Master's  neck :  Petit  Clef. 

Adolphe  moistened  his  dry  lips ;  he  began  to  read, 
slowly  and  huskily,  from  the  sheet  in  his  jerking 
hands.  The  disciples  nodded  to  one  another  in 
derision;  they  shifted,  glancing  back  at  Pere  Cabet. 
Adolphe  felt  their  silent  gibe;  by  a  mighty  effort 
he  controlled  himself  and  raised  his  voice.  In  all 
that  great,  miserable  crowd,  there  stood  no  man  who 
suffered  as  he  suffered.  He  was  acting  as  reason 
and  justice  commanded;  he  represented,  not  him 
self,  but  the  rights  of  the  majority;  and  he  felt 
himself  a  Judas,  facing  his  treachery,  yet  powerless 
to  recant. 

"Since  our  brothers,  who  now  call  themselves 
Disciples,  the  adherents  of  the  Pere  Cabet,  have 
repudiated  their  duties  in  the  fields  and  in  the 
shops,  we,  the  majority,  are  resolved  that  those  who 
labour  not  shall  eat  not.  We,  therefore,  proclaim 
that  these  our  brothers  shall  be  given  a  share  of 
food  which  shall  suffice  only  for  the  women  and  the 
children  of  each  household .  We  declare  this  sentence 
unwillingly  and  with  sorrow.  We  implore  you, 
resistant s,  that  you  give  way  to  our  prayers  and 
spare  us  the  pain  of  enforcing  this  most  just  and 
most  unhappy  law.'* 

His  voice  broke  and  fell  on  the  last  syllables.  He 
crushed  the  paper  in  both  cold  hands,  and  turned 
to  await  the  decision  of  the  Minority. 


29  6  Diane 

There  followed  a  curious,  shuffling  pause. 
Adolphe,  on  his  high  place,  won  no  glance ;  the  day 
hung  breathless  on  Pere  Cabet 's  word.  He  did  not 
speak ;  his  face  wore  its  high,  far  look ;  the  glory  of 
the  martyr  self-immolated  shone  from  his  gray 
eyes.  Finally,  one  near  by  plucked  up  courage  and 
touched  his  arm,  with  an  inquiring  gesture.  Pere 
Cabet  glanced  listlessly  towards  Adolphe,  waiting 
in  tense  silence  on  his  word.  His  look  carried 
neither  assent  nor  refusal;  but  the  disciples  inter 
preted  it  as  one  of  defiant  acceptance  of  the  terms. 

They  fell  into  line  and  stalked  sullenly  past  the 
steps.  Adolphe  snatched  the  linen  from  the  tray 
and  gave  to  each  man,  as  he  passed,  the  share  of 
bread  and  meat  apportioned  to  his  family's  needs. 
His  breath  came  in  harsh  sobs  as  he  worked;  the 
sweat  of  agony  beaded  upon  his  lips.  He  could 
more  willingly  have  stabbed  each  man  as  he  passed 
by  than  lash  him  in  the  face  with  this  supreme 
affront. 

Pere  Cabet  alone  waited  silent  in  his  place.  He 
did  not  seem  to  see  the  reluctant  movements,  the 
angry,  puzzled  faces.  The  wind  tossed  his  thick, 
white  hair  about  his  still,  dreaming  face ;  his  prophet 
gaze  was  fixed  on  things  remote  and  strange.  Petit 
Clef  nestled  tight  against  his  arm. 

Rose  watched  the  men  as  they  filed  back,  crowding 
close  about  Pere  Cabet.  She  neither  pitied  nor 
wondered;  she  stood,  an  awe-struck  witness,  through 
the  last  act  of  the  great,  inexorable  tragedy. 


Doom  297 

One  disciple,  childishly  officious,  and  bent  on 
exasperating  the  Majority,  laid  back  the  napkin 
covering  his  portion,  and  offered  the  food  to  Pere 
Cabet.  The  men  jostled  to  see;  Adolphe  leaned 
forward,  peering.  Pere  Cabet  seemed  to  grasp 
his  wish  but  slowly,  and  with  effort.  Finally  he 
took  the  loaf  in  his  hands ;  then,  as  though  the  touch 
of  it  betrayed  for  the  first  his  vast  humiliation,  he 
flung  it  on  the  stones  at  his  feet. 

It  was  the  spark  of  riot.  His  supporters  blinked 
at  him,  open-mouthed ;  there  was  a  dreadful  pause. 
Then,  as  though  his  mad  freak  had  struck  off  the 
bonds  of  their  fury,  they  rose  at  him  in  a  rage  of 
exultation.  They  turned  with  shrieks  and  taunts 
to  defy  the  Majority,  standing  helpless  and  ap 
palled.  They  rent  the  fair  linen  into  shreds.  They 
trampled  the  bread  beneath  their  feet.  Their 
tumultuous  passion  shamed  while  it  terrified. 
There  was  something  worse  than  savage  in  their 
ungoverned  wrath.  It  was  not  a  mere  angry  out 
break;  it  was  the  deliberate  casting-off  of  decency, 
of  honour,  of  self-control;  the  conscious  return  to 
license  and  to  brutal  force. 

Pere  Cabet  was  as  one  stricken  before  their 
frenzy.  Twice  he  would  have  spoken,  but  the  up 
roar  beat  him  down  to  silence.  Petit  Clef  slid 
from  his  relaxing  arms,  and  clung  to  his  knees ;  Diane 
broke  from  Rose's  grasp,  and  ran  to  his  side;  he 
did  not  hear  her  beseeching  cry. 

The  Majority  suddenly  awoke  from  their  stupor 


2g  8  Diane 

of  bewilderment.  Hotly  resentful,  they  would  have 
rushed  upon  their  opponents  and  made  good  their 
bitterness  by  blows ;  but  Adolphe's  brave  wit  saved 
the  Commune  from  ignominy.  He  leaped  down 
the  steps  and  faced  his  men ;  his  strong  voice  shrilled 
above  the  clamour. 

"  Men  of  Icaria !  You  who  have  taken  Honour 
for  your  flag !  Do  not  desert  it  now !  Leave  these 
defamers,  these  traitors,  to  vent  their  spite  on  the 
bread  which  would  have  nourished  them.  Let 
them  find  no  defence.  Return  each  to  his  labour, 
and  let  there  be  silence  among  us.  Let  no  man 
breathe  our  common  shame." 

The  Majority  drew  back,  muttering;  but  Adolphe 
had  carried  the  day.  A  moment  they  demurred; 
then,  with  high  head  and  challenging  glance  of 
scorn,  each  took  up  his  tool,  spade  or  hammer,  axe 
or  knife,  and  trod  sturdily  away.  Before  they  had 
crossed  the  Phalanstery  gardens,  the  Minority, 
baffled  and  stunned  by  their  contempt,  had  melted 
away  through  the  crowd. 

Of  the  host  which  had  thronged  the  court 
yard,  there  remained  but  three.  A  white, 
trembling  girl,  who  knelt  to  clasp  for  her  own 
solace  the  child  at  her  side;  a  wan  old  man, 
who  stood  moveless  upon  the  stairs.  The  sun 
light  flashed  silver  upon  his  brave,  white  head; 
there  was  an  awful  patience  in  his  eyes.  The 
anguish  of  the  outcast  leader,  the  grief  of  the 
prophet  unheeded,  were  written  in  that  still, 


Doom  299 

weary    face.     Yet    its    graved    lines    held    neither 
dread  nor  care. 

It  was  a  face  of  waiting.  Its  calm  was  the  calm 
of  one  who  has  laboured  eagerly  in  his  dim  cell  of 
Time,  striving  to  weave  a  tapestry  which  shall 
excel  all  others ;  who,  bringing  it  into  the  clear  light, 
sees  its  threads  rough  and  broken,  its  pattern 
faulty  and  marred ;  and  numbed  by  this  supreme  and 
blighting  vision,  faces  passively  the  last,  most 
merciful  stroke  of  Fate. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

AN  ACCOUNT  OF  LOSSES 

"So  thee  departs  to-morrow  morning,  Friend 
Armand?" 

"Pst,  brother!"  Citoyen  Armand  squatted  on 
his  fresh-scoured  door-stone.  An  old  mahogany 
chair  lay  on  the  greening  bricks  at  his  feet ;  a  heap 
of  fresh  willow  twigs,  lissom  as  cords  of  silk,  were 
piled  at  his  knee.  He  was  binding  them  about  the 
carven  arms  and  quaint  heart-shaped  back  with 
touches  furtive  and  swift;  his  glimmering,  narrow 
old  eyes  peered  constantly  up  the  street.  "This 
chair  was  built  by  me  for  my  gift  of  betrothal  to  my 
Madeleine,  fifty-one  years  ago,  when  we  were 
enfants.  Madeleine  knows  well  how  to  entreat; 
when  we  have  signed  with  the  Commune,  she  has 
persuaded  the  Pere  Cabet  that  we  are  permitted  to 
retain  this  one  treasure  in  our  own  abode.  It  has 
cost  us  of  the  black  looks  and  the  hard  words  without 
end  from  those  not  so  favoured;  but  it  has  been  a 
joy  perpetual.  Now  she  and  I  are  about  to  desert 
the  Commune;  and  it  is  the  law  that  we  may  take 
nothing  with  us,  save  the  clothing  on  our  backs  and 
twenty -five  dollars,  which  is  the  share  of  each  man 
and  wife  from  the  treasury.  Madeleine  has  wept 

300 


An  Account  of  Losses  301 

of  floods ;  she  has  vowed  that  this  chair  shall  go  also, 
even  though  she  must  fight  her  way  with  it  to  the 
wharf.  Myself,  I  have  no  mind  for  a  brawl ;  there 
fore  I  bind  it  in  osier  and  will  weave  twigs  over  it» 
until  it  shall  appear  as  a  basket.  I  will  then  carry 
it,  heaped  with  the  fresh  linen,  to  the  house  of 
Madame  Manderson,  for  Mademoiselle  Rose.  This 
will  waken  no  suspicions,  none.  But  to-night, 
when  the  Commune  sleeps,  I  shall  take  that  basket 
to  the  ferry;  the  Captain  will  hide  it  for  me 
among  the  freight;  and  to-morrow,  we  three — 
Madeleine,  I,  and  the  basket — will  enter  upon  our 
journey  west.  For  we  go  forth  to  live  our  own  life, 
M'sieu  1'Ami.  No  Commune  shall  shackle  us 
longer!" 

"I  thought  thee  joined  the  Commune  to  gain 
liberty,  friend." 

"  That  is  true,  also.  I  was  of  the  first  to  sign  my 
name  on  the  Roll  of  Icaria.  All  my  life  had  I 
dreamed  of  a  true  freedom ;  all  my  life  had  I  longed 
to  follow  the  One  Leader.  I  put  away  my  work, 
I  left  my  Madeleine  with  her  brother's  people,  I 
joined  the  Avant-Garde  of  1848.  We  were  the 
men  who  marched  into  Texas  and  fought  all  that 
hideous  summer  to  make  a  home  for  the  thousands 
who  were  to  come  and  help  us  build  the  Perfect 
State.  We  were  starved,  we  were  sun-smitten,  we 
were  burnt  out  by  fevers;  only  thirty  of  our  sixty- 
nine  escaped  alive  to  New  Orleans.  There  we  met 
ship-load  upon  ship-load  of  men  and  women  who  had 


302  Diane 

voyaged  forth  to  meet  us;  then  came  the  weeks  of 
dispute.  The  one  would  demand  to  return  to 
France.  The  other  would  force  him  to  stay.  At 
last  we  agreed  upon  this  place.  M'sieu,  you  know 
not  the  meaning  of  the  word  joy  as  we  know  it. 
The  great  steamer  which  brought  us  up  the  river 
must  stop  forty  miles  to  the  south,  because  of  the 
ice.  Packed  in  vast  windrows  it  lay,  gray  and 
crusted,  roaring  always  with  the  voice  of  the  tempest. 
The  air — it  was  of  a  cold  to  wither.  The  world 
blinded  white,  wherever  you  might  spy;  the  frost 
pierced  even  those  great  trees,  and  snapped  them 
as  you  would  snap  a  twig;  the  forest  echoed  with 
their  dying  groans.  We  carried  the  children 
on  our  backs,  we  led  our  wives  as  best  we  might, 
we  laughed  and  sang  and  shouted.  When  night 
came,  we  lodged  the  women  and  children  in  cabins, 
and  built  for  ourselves  great  fires  and  beds  of  leaves. 
We  had  little  food;  we  had  much  clothing,  but  not 
of  a  warmth  for  this  malignant  air;  we  had  many 
sick.  Yet  what  matter?  We  were  as  children, 
happy  through  the  gray  day,  happy  through  the 
awful  night.  Cold  could  not  sting  us,  hunger  could 
not  daunt.  We  were  as  princes,  entering  upon  our 
heritage ;  we  stood  at  the  gate  of  Paradise. 

"  Bien !  It  was  not  so  grand  a  Paradise  when  we 
have  gained  it.  For  the  first  year  we  must  sleep 
all  in  the  old  mill,  we  must  eat  from  planks  set  on 
trestles  on  the  threshing-floor.  No  man  of  us  tasted 
meat  that  twelve-month — no,  nor  coffee,  nor  fair 


An  Account  of  Losses  303 

bread.  Beans  and  black  bread,  such  was  our  only 
fare,  save  when  we  bartered  osier  baskets  for  a  load 
of  potatoes  or  a  sack  of  the  yellow  corn.  We  dressed 
in  those  clothes  which  we  had  brought  into  the 
Commune;  we  had  no  money  to  buy  new.  It 
would  make  one  to  perish  with  laughter,  to  behold 
us,  labouring  in  our  torn  finery,  like  so  many  scare 
crows  !  Myself,  I  sowed  wheat  that  spring,  dressed 
in  the  velvet  breeches  and  the  grand  tailed  coat 
with  the  buttons  of  gold  which  my  grandfather  had 
worn  at  the  coronation  of  Louis  the  Eighteenth, 
thirty  years  gone.  They  tripped  me  now  and  then, 
those  tails;  but  they  did  me  one  good  turn.  The 
crows  sat  high  in  the  trees  and  derided  me;  yet 
not  one  of  them  dared  pick  up  the  grain  which  that 
apparition  had  dropped.  Then  Mere  de  la  Roche, 
she  who  first  cared  for  the  children,  must  go  about 
her  work  in  the  brocades  and  the  arched  shoes  of 
silver,  since  that  all  her  other  garments  are  con 
sumed  by  wear.  She  was  a  queen  of  women,  the 
Comtesse  de  la  Roche ;  to  see  her  pace  up  and  down 
between  the  little  cradles,  dragging  those  splendid 
robes,  was  to  watch  the  mother  of  all  the  fairies. 
And  Thor6,  who  led  the  wood-choppers,  wore  sabots 
and  blouse,  but  on  his  curly  head  the  high,  white 
hat  of  beaver,  worn  only  by  the  judges  and  the  men 
of  law !  And  Traint6  Devoe,  who  managed  to  dress 
as  ouvrier  completement,  save  that  he  must  wear 
the  stockings  of  silk,  all  that  remained  to  him! 
Picture  those  long  hose  of  silk,  blue  and  rose  and 


304  Diane 

lilac  colour,  covered  of  embroideries  and  of  arabesque, 
worn  with  the  shoes  of  birch  wood,  and  the  blouse  of 
linen !  Ah,  but  what  matter  ?  We  laboured  each 
for  all.  Life  was  poor,  but  it  was  all  our  own.  Who 
could  take  away? 

"Soon  we  had  enough,  both  for  food  and  for 
clothing.  We  built  ourselves  cottages,  that  each 
family  might  live  to  itself.  We  broadened  our 
fields.  We  gave  a  year  to  raising  the  Phalanstery 
here,  and  we  rejoiced  in  each  hour  of  the  labour  it 
cost  us.  Our  fame  spread ;  great  men  of  your  country 
journeyed  to  see  our  Commune  and  to  talk  with  the 
P£re  Cabet.  But  success  was  too  big  for  us,  M'sieu. 
It  must  be  a  brave  man,  a  grand  Commune,  that 
dares  succeed. 

"At  first,  it  was  jus*  our  little  jealousies  for  the 
Commune,  that  came  between  us.  Melanie  Torre" 
had  in  her  door-plot  a  grapevine  and  two  pear-trees ; 
one  has  suggested  to  her  that  the  true  Communist 
would  give  all  the  fruit  to  the  Institution,  or  else 
destroy  these  temptations  from  the  face  of  the 
earth.  Melanie  laughed  at  the  charge;  great  was 
the  shaking  of  heads.  Myself,  I  have  this  chair; 
not  a  montfo  but  I  am  charged  with  ill-faith  to 
Icaria,  that  I  keep  it.  If  one  owned  a  flower,  it 
was  scandal;  if  a  chicken,  there  was  war.  To 
each  other,  M'sieu,  we  pretended  that  we  were  happy 
only  when  we  possessed  all  things  equally;  in  our 
own  hearts  we  knew  that  we  could  never  be  happy 
till  we  possessed  each  his  own. 


An  Account  of  Losses  305 

"There  are  times,  M'sieu,  when  I  think,  'That 
which  is  lost,  we  have  stolen  from  ourselves.  Each 
man  of  himself  is  thief.'  Who  understands  ?  It  is  jus' 
a  little  hard,  is  it  not  so,  that  we  must  spend  all  this 
life  to  learn  how  to  live  it  ?  That  we  must  go  forth, 
old  man  and  woman,  with  but  clothes  to  cover  us, 
and  money  to  buy  our  food  for  eight  days  ?  That  we 
must  go  scorned— Chut !  The  Pere  Cabet!" 

He  hustled  the  half-masked  chair  behind  the 
lilac  hedge,  and  set  busily  at  his  weaving. 

Pere  Cabet  came  slowly  down  the  street,  leaning 
on  his  great  cane.  Friend  Barclay's  words  of 
greeting  stammered  to  silence. 

This  could  not  be  the  Master.  The  Pere  Cabet 
was  always  alert  and  gay,  domineering,  buoyant, 
audacious.  His  very  walk  was  confidence ;  his  voice 
rang  hope.  Friend  Barclay  looked  again  and  yet 
again.  It  was  with  the  shock  that  comes  when  we 
look  into  a  doomed  face  that  he  stepped  aside  to 
make  place  for  this  wan  old  man,  haggard  and 
staring,  who  thrust  past  him,  never  seeing  the 
offered  hand. 

"Good-day  to  thee,  friend.     And  how  is  Diane?" 

Pere  Cabet 's  stumbling  brain  found  its  slow  path 
to  answer.  "I  have  not  seen  her  all  this  long 
day.  She  only  works,  works,  cooking  for  the 
sick.  Ah,  how  she  toils  for  these  wretches  most 
ungrateful!" 

"The  people  love  her,  friend.  And  the  sick  are 
not  ungrateful." 


306  Diane 

"  But  I  am  the  one  who  requires  her  !  Mine  is  the 
real  need." 

The  pitiful  truth  of  it !  Friend  Barclay  spoke  on 
as  he  would  have  soothed  a  child. 

"  Let  me  go  to  the  Infirmary  and  take  her  for  an 
hour's  ride  before  sunset.  She  needs  the  change 
and  the  air." 

"As  you  will."  Pere  Cabet  stood  aside  grudg 
ingly.  "But  not  for  long.  I  must  have  her  with 
me  before  the  night.  I  will  not  face  another 
darkness  without  knowing  that  she  is  safe — and 
near!" 

Diane  stood  over  a  pot  of  charcoal,  stirring  a 
bubbling  broth.  Her  hair  clung  in  tight  rings  about 
her  moist  temples ;  a  lovely  flame-pink  glowed  in  her 
cheek,  but  her  eyes  showed  deep,  weary  shadows. 
At  his  gentle  insistence,  she  gave  over  the  work  to 
one  of  the  women  standing  by,  and  went  with  him ; 
but  through  the  drive  he  strove  in  vain  to  rouse  her 
from  her  dreary  listlessness.  He  took  a  short  cut 
on  the  way  back,  which  brought  them  past  Madame 
Manderson's  cottage.  As  its  trim  white  walls  came 
into  view,  Diane  sat  up  eagerly;  the  colour  flew  to 
her  face. 

"Oh,  she  is  there!  Mademoiselle  Rose!  Please 
let  me  go  in  to  see  her.  I  must !  Perhaps — did  the 
Pere  Cabet  tell  you?" 

"That  thee  will  go  with  him  to  St.  Louis,  dear 
child?" 

"Yes,    And  soon,     I  may  not  see  her  again," 


An  Account  of  Losses  307 

"But  the  sun  is  already  down,  Diane.  It  is 
later  than  I  promised  thy  return.  " 

Diane  was  already  gathering  up  her  skirts  to 
clamber  out.  He  stopped  the  horse,  smiling  at  her 
wilfulness. 

"Be  quick,  Diane.  Don't  thee  stop  to  chatter 
secrets  this  time.  I  promise  thee'll  have  another 
hour  together  before  thee  goes." 

Diane  sped  past  Persis,  who  met  her  with  open 
arms  and  vociferous  welcome,  to  the  little  room 
where  Rose  now  stayed.  Madame  Manderson  had 
invited  her  to  remain  as  her  guest  during  the  Major's 
absence  in  the  East;  and  to  his  unbounded  amaze 
ment,  she  had  accepted.  It  would  be  dull,  she 
explained  to  her  puzzled  parent;  but  the  journey 
would  be  hot  and  tedious,  and  of  the  two  evils,  one 
might  as  well  choose  the  lesser.  So  the  Major  had 
yielded,  after  the  fashion  of  the  properly  disciplined 
father;  and  Rose  had  stayed,  day  after  tranquil 
day,  in  Madame  Manderson's  little  parlour.  She 
wound  yarn  for  Madame's  hungry  needles;  she 
read  aloud  to  her  from  certain  fine-typed  magazines, 
flimsily  bound,  illustrated  by  deplorable  wood-cuts, 
in  which  one  beheld  the  same  lovely  damsel,  hoop- 
skirted  and  poke-bonneted,  through  an  entire  issue, 
no  matter  whether  the  tale  might  be  "Visits  to  an 
Egyptian  Harem,"  or  "The  Heiress  of  Raven- 
hurst."  There  were  serials  in  those  magazines  of 
the  mid-century,  too;  stories  whimsical,  pathetic, 
adorable,  written  by  an  English  gentleman  named 


308  Diane 

Dickens,  who  was  said  to  have  made  for  himself  a 
famous  name  despite  his  wretched  rearing,  even 
in  that  Parnassus,  London.  True,  Madame  Mander- 
son  lifted  delicate  brows  at  some  of  the  rather 
ordinary  people  whom  one  met  in  his  pages;  but 
Rose  devoured  them  passionately.  She  was  for 
ever  at  her  books,  so  Madame  complained.  It 
was  enough  to  wreck  her  eyesight  and  to  blunt  her 
fine  mind,  such  constant  poring  over  trivial  tales. 
The  way  she  read,  plunged  always  in  her  book, 
might  have  drowned  Memory  itself. 

Rose's  door  stood  open;  Rose  sat  at  the  little 
ivory-inlaid  desk,  her  brown  head  bent  over  her 
writing.  Diane  ran  in  with  an  eager  loving  cry; 
then  she  stepped  back,  her  lashes  flickering  with 
hurt  surprise.  Rose  had  sprung  up,  flinging  her 
handkerchief  over  her  half-written  letter.  Her 
angry  exclamation  cut  the  younger  girl  like  a  lash. 
All  her  swift,  tender  remonstrance  could  not  quite 
soothe  the  sting,  though  Diane  declared  her  own 
blame  at  entering  unbidden,  and  put  up  still  quiver 
ing  lips  for  Rose's  kiss.  The  little  affront  was  not 
quite  forgotten,  even  in  the  grave,  whispered 
conference  which  followed. 

"You're  not  honestly  going  with  him,  Diane?  I 
just  won't  let  you.  Come,  stay  here  with  me  till 
Pere  Cabet  makes  a  place  for  you;  then  go,  if  you 
must.  But  it  would  be  so  much  safer  and  better — " 

"  But  it  is  not  safe  for  him,  to  go  alone.  Do  not 
tempt  me,  dear  Mademoiselle.  It  is  my  place." 


An  Account  of  Losses  3°9 

Rose  hesitated;  then  the  impetuous  question 
which  had  teased  her  for  months  broke  from  her 
lips.  "  Diane,  what  claim  has  Pere  Cabet  on  you  ? 
Why  did  he  bring  you  here,  of  all  places?  How 
did  he  happen  to  take  charge  of  you  in  the  beginning  ? 
Sometimes  I  believe  it  is  all  wrong,  that  he  is  making 
pretence  of  his  love  for  you,  that  he  has  no  right — " 

"Who  could  question  his  right?  Surely  he  has 
earned  it,  by  his  goodness  to  me.  Mademoiselle, 
is  it  that  you  do  not  know  how  he  has  cared  for  me, 
always?  That  he  has  been  father  and  mother? 
I  am  a  waif,  bereaved;  he  has  put  me  with  the 
good  Sisters;  he  has  cherished  me  always.  Truly, 
I  do  not  know  why  these  things  are  so ;  he  has  never 
seen  fit  to  tell  me  of  my  people,  save  that  they 
were  men  and  women  wise  and  good,  and  that  I  am 
the  last  of  all  my  blood.  Often  I  wish  that  I  might 
know  more,  yet  surely  I  may  trust  my  faith  to 
him!" 

"What  does  he  plan  to  do,  Diane?" 

"He  thinks  that  he  can  found  a  new  Icaria,  in 
the  South.  Two  hundred  of  the  Citoyens  have 
promised  to  go  with  him;  among  them  are  some  of 
the  most  brilliant  men  of  the  Commune.  Lacienne, 
who  wrote  with  the  Pere  Cabet,  and  helped  him  to 
translate  the  Republic  into  French;  Desprez,  the 
sculptor;  Mortier,  the  physician;  Gustav  Troyer, 
who  designed  the  Phalanstery.  That  is  a  man, 
Mademoiselle !  He  spends  his  days  in  the  fields ; 
but  he  rises  with  the  gray  of  dawn,  that  he  may 


310  Diane 

give  the  first  two  bright  hours  to  his  drawings.  He 
studied  in  Prague,  forty  years  since.  He  has  told 
me  how,  when  the  days  were  short  and  the  night 
came  before  he  could  leave  the  shop,  he  would  lie 
on  the  hearth,  his  papers  spread  on  the  stones,  and 
draw  his  appointed  task  by  firelight.  Ah,  the  brave 
soul !  And  he  loves  the  Commune  as  his  life. 
Ten  thousand  francs  has  he  received  for  the  portraits 
which  he  has  painted  since  he  has  become  one  of  us ; 
every  sou  has  he  placed  in  the  common  treasury." 

"Mortier  and  Lacienne  are  talented  men,  too. 
They  deserve  high  praise.  What  sort  of  work  will 
Pere  Cabet  offer  them  in  this  new  Icaria?  Will 
they  be  able  to  earn  as  they  deserve  ?  Or  must  they 
carry  wood,  and  shoe  horses,  and  dig  fields,  as  they 
have  done  here?  Oh,  Diane,  I  didn't  mean  to  be 
so  cruel !  Don't,  dear !" 

"  I  am  to  keep  his  house  for  him,"  Diane  went  on, 
presently.  "For  a  time,  we  cannot  share  our 
labours  as  we  have  done  here.  I  must  say  good-bye 
now,  Mademoiselle.  M'sieu  1'Ami  waits  for  me. 
If  you  can,  will  you  come  and  spend  a  little  hour 
with  me  before  we  go  ?  To-morrow  I  shall  be  in 
the  Library,  where  I  am  to  pack  the  Pere  Cabet 's 
manuscripts.  I  shall  hope  for  you  then.  And 
Mademoiselle,"  her  pale  cheek  flared  sudden  crimson 
in  the  waning  light,  "may  I  request  one  little 
favour  ?  That  you  will  say  farewell  for  me  to  your 
cousin,  M'sieu  le  Capitaine?  And  you  will  ask 
him  to  forgive  me  my  harsh  words  ?  When  I  spoke 


An  Account  of  Losses  311 

them,  that  day  of  our  great  sorrow,  I  believed  them; 
I  knew  that  he  was  wrong.  Now  I  do  not  know. 
Only  I  see  that  I  dare  not  judge.  He  did  much  to 
give  me  pleasure ;  I  wish  to  declare  my  gratitude  as 
well  as  to  confess  my  fault." 

'Til  not  forget,  Diane/'  Rose  listened  patiently 
to  the  ceremonious  little  speech.  She  walked  un 
steadily  to  the  door  with  her;  her  fingers  chilled 
Diane's  clasp.  "Indeed,  I'll  come  soon,  dear. 
Good-bye." 

She  went  back  to  the  little  carven  desk,  and 
lighted  the  candles  in  the  slim  bronze  sconces  at 
either  side.  Then  she  turned  back  to  the  window. 
The  western  sky  was  a  laver  of  foaming  gold ;  the 
trees  stood  out  in  spectral  nakedness  against  the 
glow.  Below  glimmered  the  waveless  river;  a 
scimitar,  cold  and  steely  gray.  Like  a  strange 
weapon,  flung  from  an  alien  sphere,  a  long  black 
arrowy  wedge  floated  slowly  past  bank  and  thicket. 
In  mid-air  its  vast  arms  broadened,  grew  tenuous, 
like  dissolving  mist;  as  shrouded  by  drifting  veils 
of  incense,  the  sunset  altar  gleamed  through  the 
cloud  of  eager  wings.  Away  to  the  south  it  sped ; 
the  harsh,  exultant  clang  of  the  myriad  flock  struck 
a  cry  of  farewell  to  Rose's  ear.  As  the  birds  fled, 
so  fled  her  summer  years.  Their  spring  might  come 
again,  blossom  and  star  and  dew;  her  own  hand 
must  lock  away  her  summer  for  all  time. 

The  room  brimmed  with  shadow.  She  took  up 
her  letter  and  read  over  the  last  page  by  candle- 


312  Diane 

light.  The  dim  sconce  mirror  pictured  her  still, 
wan  face,  her  dreary  eyes. 

"We've  missed  you  a  good  deal,  Bob,  especially 
those  first  few  weeks.  I  wonder  if  they  seemed  as 
long  to  you?  Since  father  went  to  Washington  to 
report,  I've  stayed  with  Madame  Manderson — 
that  is,  when  I  haven't  been  up  at  the  Commune 
with  Diane.  Sydney  Palmer  went  away  in  July. 
To  his  plantations,  I  think;  none  of  us  have  heard 
from  him.  I'm  worried  about  Diane.  The  fusses 
in  that  old  Commune  tire  her  so.  Friend  Barclay 
has  been  helping  the  people  by  giving  them  work 
in  his  orchards,  and  I  imagine  he  has  sent  in  food, 
too,  though  I  know  neither  Pere  Cabet  nor  Diane 
suspect  that.  Friend  Barclay  says  that  Pere 
Cabet  cannot  live  much  longer.  Father  thinks  she 
should  go  back  to  France,  but  she  won't  hear  of  it. 
She  looks  tired,  and  not  very  well.  Madame 
Manderson  wants  her,  for  all  the  time.  So  do  I. 
But  there's  no  telling  how  it  will  all  end. 

"Friend  Barclay  said,  to-day,  to  give  you  this 
message,  *  Bread  on  the  table.  Fire  on  the  hearth. 
Open  the  door.' 

"I  suppose  he  means  he  would  be  glad  to  see 
you  come  back.  So  should  I,  though  I  think  you've 
acted  abominably,  not  to  write  to  one  of  us.  I  dare 
say  you  think  it's  odd  enough  for  me  to  be  writing 
to  you,  after  all  the  horrid  things  I  said  to  you, 
that  day  on  the  river.  But  we've  known  each  other 
too  long  to  make  good  enemies,  Bob.  So  here  are 


An  Account  of  Losses  313 

wishes  for  your  health  and  safety — though  I  don't 
wish  you  success.    And  so  good-bye.          ROSE." 

She  took  up  the  pen  again  with  an  unfaltering 
hand: 

"Diane  was  here  just  now;  Friend  Barclay 
dragged  her  away  from  the  kitchen — you  know, 
she  cooks  for  the  sick  people  at  the  Commune — and 
brought  her  out  for  the  ride.  She  goes  with  Pere 
Cabet  to  St.  Louis  to-morrow;  he  hopes  to  found 
another  Commune  there.  I  just  don't  know  how 
to  let  her  go.  She  asked  me  to  say  good-bye  to  you, 
for  her,  and  to  ask  your  forgiveness  for  what  she 
said  to  you,  that  day  of  the  Commune  rebellion.  I 
think  you'd  forgive  her  if  you  could  have  heard 
her  ask  it,  Bob. 

"Sydney  Palmer  was  very  good  to  her,  all  the 
time  after  you  went  away.  Somehow  she  hasn't 
seemed  to  care  for  anything,  though.  We  went  on 
the  river  once  or  twice,  but  even  Sydney  could  see 
that  she  didn't  enjoy  it.  Perhaps  she  was  afraid. 
She  used  to  love  to  go  when  you  took  us.  She 
never  used  to  be  afraid  then.  I  know  she  misses 
you,  just  as  we  do. 

"  Persis  is  going  to  the  ferry,  and  I  shall  send  this 
to  the  post  by  her.  When  you're  in  the  humour, 
write  a  line  to  ROSE." 

She  sealed  the  dainty  sheet,  and  ran  with  it  to 
the  garden.  Persis  waited  at  the  gate  to  receive 
it;  with  the  impudence  of  the  petted  servant,  she 


3H  Diane 

read  the  address,  then  stroked  Rose's  cheek  with  a 
velvet  palm.  Her  eyes  danced  with  teasing  laughter, 
but  Rose  did  not  see.  She  hurried  back  up  the  path, 
her  long  skirts  striking  perfume  from  the  thymy 
border  as  she  sped.  Madame 's  sweet  quaver  sum 
moned  her  from  the  arbour;  she  did  not  hear. 
The  little  room  was  mercifully  dark  as  she  stumbled 
in  and  locked  the  door. 

To  her  bewilderment,  Diane  did  not  find  Pere 
Cabet  waiting  for  her,  when  she  reached  the  Com 
mune.  He  had  asked  for  her  many  times  over 
during  the  afternoon,  so  the  women  volubly  ex 
plained.  He  had  seemed  beset  by  an  impatience 
most  vehement.  At  last  he  had  taken  his  cap  and 
stick — "Et  pas  son  chapeau  propre,  Mademoiselle, 
mais  sa  casquette  d'ouvrier!"  and  had  gone  forth, 
probably  in  search  of  her.  Ah,  no,  she  must  not 
harass  herself  with  presentiments.  He  went  forth 
often  to  take  the  air  in  solitude  after  a  hard  day, 
was  it  not  so  ? 

Diane  swallowed  the  black  bread  and  the  grapes 
which  Th6rese  set  before  her,  then  slipped  away, 
unnoticed  in  the  hubbub  of  surmise  and  assurance. 
Her  heart  was  sick  with  heavy  dread.  It  was 
preposterous,  she  told  herself  valiantly,  that  she 
should  fear  for  him — for  the  Pere  Cabet,  the  wise, 
the  confident,  the  sane.  And  what  outward  dangers 
could  menace  in  these  his  own  safe,  tranquil  fields? 
The  hoot  of  an  owl  might  startle  him ;  the  bark  of  a 


An  Account  of  Losses  315 

hunting  fox  might  jar  upon  his  reverie.  There 
could  be  nothing  more. 

Yet  looming  Terror  hung  at  her  flying  feet.  She 
was  deep  in  the  fields  now;  the  Commune  lights, 
faint  stars  on  the  twilight  sky,  were  will-o'-the-wisp 
beacons,  unpitying,  remote.  The  corn-shocks,  dim, 
crouching  giants,  seemed  to  lean  and  clutch  for  her 
as  she  fled  past ;  all  the  dry  leaves  huddled  together, 
whispering  reproach.  The  road  wound  upward, 
past  outlying  vineyards,  then  wavered  and  was  lost, 
a  dim  gray  thread,  in  the  gloom  of  unbroken  forest. 

She  paused  at  the  crest  of  the  last  long  hill. 
Behind  her  stretched  the  Commune  fields,  a  dusky 
camping-ground,  file  after  file  of  black  tents  against 
the  darkling  sky.  Before  her  hovered  the  forest 
shadow ;  the  very  cloak  of  Fear. 

Once  before  she  had  walked  this  road  by  night, 
but  not  alone.  Her  arms  had  borne  a  showering 
burden,  rifled  from  bush  and  thicket,  balmy-sweet. 
She  remembered  the  scent  of  the  wild  crab -apple, 
pure  as  arbutus  under  snows,  as  one  recalls  a  caress 
ing  tone.  Channing's  hand  had  guided  her  down 
this  rough  path;  Channing's  voice  had  cheered  her 
serious  dread  of  wolf  and  savage.  He  was  so 
strong,  this  grave  M'sieu  le  Capitaine ;  his  blue  eyes 
were  so  kind,  his  deep  voice  comforted,  even  though 
his  words  might  fail.  In  those  days,  it  was  as 
though  he  stood  before  her,  a  brave  wall,  and 
shielded  her  from  every  ordeal,  every  pain.  He 
was  so  big,  so  strong!  Nothing  could  torture  her 


316  Diane 

while  he  was  near.  Until  at  last —  Ah !  He  had 
struck  her  with  his  own  hand,  he  had  broken  her 
heart,  he  had  reviled  her  idol — the  Commune ! 

She  clenched  her  little  teeth.  Traitress!  Yet 
the  cry  had  flown  from  her  lips,  the  wail  of  her 
grieving  heart.  "  Return  to  me,  M'sieu  le  Capitaine  ! 
Return !  It  is  that  I  have  need  of  you,  oh,  mon 
ami!" 

A  long  sigh  breathed  from  the  forest.  It  roused 
her,  quivering,  to  all  her  present  fears.  A  mile 
through  the  wood  lay  a  small  clearing ;  there  stood  the 
tiny  new  House  of  Our  Lady,  where  Alexandre,  son 
to  Paul  and  Angele,  had  been  baptised.  This  walk 
through  the  woods  was  a  favourite  stroll  with  Pere 
Cabet;  more  than  once,  of  a  summer  afternoon, 
she  had  wandered  up  the  cool,  shadowed  paths 
with  him.  She  had  a  fair  knowledge  of  the  road 
by  day.  But  her  heart  failed  her  at  the  thought 
of  treading  its  lonely  silences  by  night. 

"  This  will  not  do  for  a  Lahautiere,  Mademoiselle." 
she  told  herself,  sternly.  "  You  must  have  courage, 
not  only  for  yourself,  but  for  him.  You  must  find 
him,  you  must  comfort  him — ah !  the  poor  Pere 
Cabet!" 

Sobs  choked  her.  She  brushed  the  tears  from 
her  eyes,  and  started  bravely  on. 

Now  her  grief  and  her  care  for  the  beloved  old 
man  dulled  her  own  selfish  terrors.  She  made  her 
way  steadily,  guided  half  by  sight,  half  by  instinct, 
through  the  enfolding  night.  Now  and  then  she 


An  Account  of  Losses  3*7 

stumbled  over  a  fallen  branch ;  once  she  fell  heavily, 
and  lay  for  a  moment  bruised  and  trembling.  The 
terrors  of  darkness  were  near  and  real.  Her  heart 
leaped  at  every  night-bird's  call,  her  breath  failed 
her  at  every  stealthy  rustle ;  yet  her  mind  bent  more 
and  more  upon  the  loved  one  whom  she  had  come 
to  find. 

The  road  turned  abruptly,  and  wound  along  the 
rim  of  a  high  bluff.  Ah!  There  was  the  river 
below,  a  pulseless  sheet  of  gray.  There  glimmered 
the  lights  of  the  Government  fleet,  across  near  the 
Iowa  shore.  The  chapel  was  only  a  few  steps 
farther  down  the  hill.  She  caught  the  gleam  of  its 
lights  through  the  trees,  and  was  swiftly  warmed 
and  comforted.  Though  the  Pere  Cabet  might  not 
be  there,  the  good  priest  would  surely  help  her  to 
find  him.  And  if  the  priest  was  not  in  the  chapel, 
the  Holy  Mother  herself  would  soothe  and  care  for 
her.  Now  all  would  be  well. 

She  crept  down  the  slope,  treading  lightly  as 
the  breeze.  A  curious  awe  filled  her  little  heart  as 
she  knelt  at  the  open  door.  It  was  a  thing  mys 
terious,  this  shrine  built  deep  in  the  woods,  so  far 
from  human  dwelling!  Its  nearest  neighbour  was 
the  Commune,  whose  people  were  unbelievers, 
almost  without  exception.  Those  few  who,  like 
Angele,  longed  to  return  to  their  old  faith,  would 
have  to  walk  these  miles  of  field  and  forest  to 
reach  their  shrine.  Moreover,  the  greater  part  of 
the  road  was  a  public  highway ;  they  were  likely  to 


318  Diane 

be  seen  by  the  disciples  of  the  Pere  Cabet,  and 
reported  to  him  as  apostates.  For,  as  Diane  knew 
to  her  sorrow,  there  was  nothing  so  grievous  to 
him  as  the  thought  that  his  people  were  turning 
backward  from  the  broad  road  of  Reason,  which  he 
he  had  opened  to  their  feet,  to  walk  again  the 
narrow,  high-walled  path  of  the  Romish  Church. 

She  slipped  in  timidly.  The  chapel  seemed  too 
tiny  to  be  real.  It  was  smaller  than  the  nuns* 
oratory  at  the  Convent,  she  thought,  with  a  sigh. 
Truly  an  elfin  cloister,  as  Petit  Clef  had  declared. 
Alas,  there  was  no  one  here !  Unless — could  that 
be  a  voice  from  the  confessional  ? 

The  voice  of  the  Pere  Cabet ! 

Anguish  mastered  her.  Before  the  crucifix  she 
sank,  her  hands  clenched  and  quivering,  her  heart 
wrung  with  intolerable  woe.  Oh,  that  she  might 
solace  him!  That  she  might  help  to  bear  this 
misery  insupportable,  which  had  beaten  him  back, 
strong,  confident  rebel,  to  the  feet  of  One  whom  he 
had  denied  before  all  men ! 

The  old  voice  whispered  on:  its  piteous  account 
of  losses;  its  measureless  renunciation. 

— "I  confess  to  Almighty  God,  to  the  Blessed 
Mary,  ever  Virgin,  to  blessed  Michael  the  Arch 
angel,  to  blessed  John  the  Baptist,  to  the  holy 
Apostles,  Peter  and  Paul,  and  to  all  the  Saints,  that 
I  have  sinned  exceedingly  in  thought,  word  and 
deed,  through  my  fault,  through  my  fault,  through 
my  most  grievous  fault.  I  have  lived  without 


An  Account  of  Losses  319 

Thee,  O  Thou  God  of  my  youth.  I  have  builded  my 
house  without  Thine  altar.  I  have  shunned  Thy 
Holy  Temple.  I  have  profaned  the  Days  of  these 
Thy  Saints.  I  have  taught  those  who  lean  upon 
me  and  believe  in  me  to  sin  as  I  have  sinned.  When 
my  sorrows  grew  greater  than  I  could  bear,  I  have 
built  this  shrine  to  Thee  in  secret,  that  I  might 
worship  to  my  consoling  without  the  knowledge  of 
my  people.  Be  it  my  shame  that  I  would  not 
declare  Thee  before  them,  in  the  fear  that  they 
might  turn  against  me  and  destroy  this  Government 
which  is  as  the  breath  of  my  nostrils.  Be  it  my 
doom  that  I  shall  expiate  my  sins  in  purging  flame, 
Be  it  my  hope  that  my  griefs  may  atone  for  the 
sins  of  these  my  children,  my  beloved.  Have 
mercy  upon  them,  Thou,  God  Almighty.  Have 
mercy  upon  them,  Mary,  Mother,  Ever-Blessed. 
Intercede  in  pity  for  them,  all  ye  Saints,  ye  who 
have  been  tempted  as  they  have  been  tempted, 
who  have  fallen,  as  they  have  fallen,  who  have 
been  forgiven  as  they  may  be  forgiven " 

Diane  staggered  trembling  from  the  chapel. 
Blinded  and  choked  in  her  agony,  she  could  endure 
to  hear  no  more. 

She  crouched  in  the  shadow  without  and  waited 
till  the  murmur  within  had  ceased.  Finally  Pere 
Cabet  came  down  the  aisle.  He  did  not  start 
when  she  stepped  into  the  bar  of  light  from  the 
doorway  and  put  out  her  hands  to  him.  There  was 
a  lovely  radiance  in  his  face.  His  eyes  bore  their 


320  Diane 

high,  calm  look;  he  smiled  into  her  despairing 
gaze. 

"  It  is  that  you  have  come  to  walk  with  me,  Diane, 
beloved  ? "  He  took  her  face  between  his  palms  and 
kissed  it  tenderly.  "It  is  late  for  us  to  be  so  far 
away.  But  we  will  clasp  each  other's  hands,  and 
walk  together  safely,  through  the  black  night.  We 
are  but  children  together,  ma  petite.  We  are  both 
beloved,  we  are  both  cherished,  is  it  not  so  ?  Come." 

Hand  in  hand,  in  still  accord,  they  crossed  dark 
hills  and  silent  fields  till  they  gained  the  lights  of 
home. 


CHAPTER  XX 
DREAMS  AND  A  WAKENING 

"FALL  inter  line,  there!  Lively,  now!  How 
many  miles  furder,  Cap'n  Channing?" 

"Nineteen,  to  Lawrence.  We  ought  to  reach 
the  river  in  time  to  make  camp." 

"We'll  have  to,  that.  Step  along,  boys.  Whip 
up,  now!" 

A  laggard  ox-cart  trundled  clumsily  into  line.  A 
volley  of  whip-cracking  ran  along  the  file,  like  the 
explosion  of  an  endless  string  of  fire-crackers.  The 
last  emigrant  train  of  '56  started  on  its  final 
day  of  travel  into  the  Promised  Land. 

Beside  the  leader's  wagon  rode  Channing,  sheeted 
with  dust  from  hat  to  spur.  One  hand  rested,  from 
long  habit,  on  the  butt  of  his  revolver,  the  other 
lay  on  Winnie's  satin  neck.  From  time  to  time 
Winnie  turned  and  flung  her  dainty  head,  as  though 
she  would  cast  the  dreary  outlook  from  her  eyes. 
For  they  rode  through  a  burnt-out  world.  The 
ridges  which  two  months  ago  had  tossed  breast-high 
with  plumy  green  were  scorched  and  blackened. 
The  prairie  wind,  once  a  wild,  pure  breath,  was  now 
the  breath  of  a  furnace,  parching,  destroying. 
Clouds  of  white,  bitter  dust  enveloped  the  caravan. 

321 


322  Diane 

The  sky  was  an  ash-gray  tent ;  only  a  rim  of  brassy 
orange  at  night  and  morning  promised  that,  beyond 
the  heat  and  weariness,  one  dared  to  hope  for  the 
glory  of  dawn,  the  peace  of  amber  dusk. 

Through  these  months,  Channing  had  toiled  as  he 
had  never  toiled  before.  The  best  of  his  time  had 
been  spent  as  an  emigrant  guard;  during  the  few 
weeks  which  he  could  call  his  own,  he  had  ploughed 
and  cleared  a  part  of  his  Lawrence  claim,  and  had 
built  a  cabin  which  for  size  and  splendour  was  the 
marvel  of  his  frontier  neighbours.  He  had  found 
little  joy  in  its  making,  although  he  took  a  boyish 
satisfaction  in  selecting  the  highest  knoll  in  his 
beautiful  hill-bound  claim  as  its  foundation.  He 
had  put  it  up  carefully,  moreover.  It  was  absurd, 
he  told  himself  impatiently,  to  take  so  much 
pains  with  a  house  which  no  one  but  himself  would 
ever  use.  Yet  sometimes  he  forgot  himself,  and 
dreamed.  To-day  the  dream  was  far  more  real 
than  the  scorching  prairie  at  his  feet. 

It  was  early  dusk;  the  hour  when  crickets  would 
shrill  at  the  door-stones,  and  long  mists  creep  like 
groping  fingers  through  the  willows  that  fringed  the 
stream  below.  He  saw  his  cabin,  bowered  high  in 
honeysuckle  and  ghostly  clematis;  he  watched  his 
own  figure  climb  the  last  steep  slope  to  the  door, 
with  dog  and  gun.  It  was  long  past  sundown,  yet 
roseate  light  blazed  from  every  deep-set  window,  as 
through  the  sunset  glow  were  caught  and  prisoned 
in  those  tiny  panes.  The  door  stood  open,  wide; 


Dreams  and  a  Wakening  323 

dark  and  clear  against  the  gush  of  light  from  the 
hearth  beyond,  a  stately  figure  stood — a  quaint  little 
figure  enough,  whose  wide-flowing  lilac  gown  flushed 
to  rose  in  the  dancing  light,  whose  slender  hands 
outstretched 

A  blast  of  parching  dust  pelted  his  face  like  red- 
hot  gravel.  Channing  shook  himself  awake,  and 
looked  back  at  the  crawling  train.  Two  drivers 
were  wrangling  in  bellows  and  shouts  over  right  of 
precedence  in  the  line ;  a  child  wailed  dismally  in  the 
nearest  wagon,  while  the  mother  betrayed  her  own 
homesickness  by  shrill  demands  for  silence.  This 
was  the  real  world,  hot,  clamorous,  disheartening. 
Dreams  were  well  enough  in  their  way,  but  they 
should  stop  where  they  belonged — between  the 
covers  of  a  poet's  books.  The  Kansas  prairie  was 
no  place  for  them.  Moreover,  it  was  no  place — for 
her. 

How  the  sunlight  had  flashed  on  her  curly  head 
as  she  stepped  from  the  boat  that  last  day !  There 
were  gold  streaks  in  her  clouding  lashes,  too;  one 
noticed  them  always  with  a  fresh  surprise.  With  all 
her  queenly  dignity,  a  thread  of  sylvan  mischief  ran 
through  her  gravest  mood,  like  the  thread  of  gold 
through  her  brown  hair.  At  sight  of  her,  one  thought 
of  wild,  shy  things,  too  exquisite  for  human  holding ; 
a  stem  of  pussy-willow  buds,  silver  against  the  pale 
March  sky;  the  call  of  a  mourning  dove,  deep 
in  the  hazel  brush;  the  scent  of  hillside  sweet- 
briar,  drenched  and  storm-beaten,  every  rose-tipped 


324  Diane 

leaf  flashing  white  crystal.  Ah,  the  smell  of  that 
rain-swept  thicket !  He  need  not  close  his  eyes  to 
see  the  dip  of  the  lovely  slope,  the  gray  ribbon  of 
willows,  the  great  cool  amber  river  beyond.  And 
green  through  the  mist  of  the  willows,  her  long 
cloak,  flowing  free.  And  sweet  through  the  purl 
of  the  water,  her  laughter,  faint  and  clear. 

His  was  a  homesickness  of  body  as  well  as  a  home 
sickness  of  mind.  Soul  and  sense  thirsted  as  with 
a  bodily  thirst  for  the  peace  of  that  stainless, 
tranquil  world.  He  longed  for  the  flowing  silence 
of  broad  ripening  fields ;  the  pelt  and  plash  of  swift 
midsummer  hail;  the  glory  of  the  unclouded  tur 
quoise  sky.  While  he  tramped  his  watch  through 
the  darkness,  he  caught  himself  listening  for  the  far 
night  sounds  of  home ;  the  wild,  soft  bark  of  a  hunting 
fox;  the  crash  of  a  buck  through  low  timber;  the 
scamper  of  a  beaver,  velvet -footed,  upon  the  river 
sands.  In  the  white  glare  of  the  August  nooning, 
he  dreamed  the  call  of  the  shy  quail-mother,  faint 
hearted  Amazon,  leading  her  huddled  caravan 
across  the  white  dust  desert  of  the  road.  Once  or 
twice  he  had  caught  one  of  those  velvet-striped 
atoms  of  terror;  he  remembered  the  smitten  quiet 
of  the  tiny  body  in  his  big  palm,  the  panic  pleading 
in  the  jewel  eyes ;  the  leap  of  relief  as  the  brown  dot 
scuttled  from  his  opening  hand  beneath  a  forest 
of  corn-stalks.  He  pursed  his  lips  to  whistle  the 
bob-white ;  but  the  prairie  dust  stifled  the  note  to  a 
tuneless  chirp.  And  then  the  thrushes,  those 


Dreams  and  a  Wakening  325 

rapturous  choristers,  linking  in  a  chain  of  song  the 
earth  and  sky !  He  would  give  a  year  for  their 
wakening  twitter.  The  trill  of  a  bluebird,  even  a 
blue-jay's  whistle,  would  be  music.  True,  the 
prairie  grasses  rustled  full  of  birds,  whirring  up  in 
brown  clouds  beneath  his  horse's  feet;  but  they 
were  harsh-voiced,  rusty -coated,  never  the  blithe 
comrades  of  silver  turf  and  willow.  This  was  as  it 
should  be.  This  charred  waste  was  never  the 
place  for  them.  And  it  could  never  be  the  place — 
for  her. 

So  he  would  muse,  day  after  day,  night  after 
watching  night,  upon  the  home  that  he  had  left. 
But  he  did  not  trust  himself  to  think  of  the  friends 
behind.  Rose,  and  the  Major,  Palmer  and  Friend 
Barclay;  and  that  was  well.  His  heart  was  sore 
when  he  remembered  them.  A  man  can  steel 
himself  to  endure  reproach;  the  bravest  stoic  of  us 
all  cringes  before  the  supreme  blow — to  be  for 
gotten. 

In  all  these  months  he  had  heard  no  word  from 
home.  He  had  written  to  Friend  Barclay  over  and 
over,  without  reply.  He  had  swallowed  his  pride 
and  sent  a  short  letter  to  the  Major,  telling  of  his 
work  and  of  his  plans ;  he  had  not  dared  to  hope  for 
an  acknowledgment;  yet  he  knew  himself  disap 
pointed  when  none  came.  Perhaps,  had  he  known 
that  his  letters,  with  those  of  many  another  wistful 
pioneer,  had  served  a  border  ruffian  camp  as  pipe 
spills,  his  grievance  had  not  been  so  keen. 


326  Diane 

Yet,  had  he  sifted  his  thought,  his  heaviest  care 
was  not  for  the  man  and  woman  of  his  blood,  nor 
for  the  friends  of  a  life-time.  He  had  chosen  the 
one  wise  way,  he  told  himself  obstinately.  He  had 
laid  hold  of  the  plow ;  he  had  no  right  to  turn  from 
it  again.  The  man  who  elects  to  share  the  fortunes 
of  a  raw  new  country  can  swallow  his  cup  of  loss  and 
ill  with  a  good  grace;  he  cannot  ask  his  dearly 
beloved  to  drink  with  him.  It  was  not  right;  it 
was  not  just.  The  staring  country  would  irk  and 
daunt  her.  He  would  be  much  away;  she  would 
be  grieved  and  lonely.  The  men  and  women 
whom  she  would  see  were  not  of  her  class  and  kind. 
It  was  absurd,  it  was  cruel  of  him  to  think  of 
it.  How  dared  he  long  for  this  right  ?  It  was  the 
price  he  had  paid  for  his  principle;  and  principle 
costs. 

Life  must  be  fuller,  sweeter,  for  Diane  than  he 
could  ever  make  it.  Her  beauty  must  be  richly 
framed;  her  days  must  know  joy  and  peace.  For 
very  shame,  he  who  cannot  give  must  not  ask. 
And  yet —  From  time  immemorial,  Philosophy  has 
built  her  adamantine  fortress,  only  to  find  it  under 
mined  by  Hope. 

The  last  emigrant  train  of  '56  lumbered  peacefully 
into  Lawrence.  Channing  helped  the  tired  men 
and  flurried  women  to  make  their  camps  for  the 
night.  Then  he  rode  up  the  hill  to  his  own  cabin,  a 
dark  blot  against  the  stars.  He  recalled  his  dream 
with  a  whimsical  shrug.  No  warm  light  shone 


Dreams  and  a  Wakening  327 

from  its  windows;  the  door  yielded  grudgingly  to 
his  key. 

He  groped  his  way  cautiously  across  the  room,  and 
slid  his  hands  over  the  deal  table,  in  search  of  a 
candlestick,  but  his  fingers  touched  only  the  dust- 
gritted  wood.  To  be  sure,  he  had  lent  his  candle 
stick  to  a  disconsolate  neighbour,  on  the  day  that  he 
had  started  to  meet  this  caravan.  There  were  no 
candles  in  the  cabin,  either;  he  would  have  to  go 
back  to  camp  and  borrow  one,  unless — ah ! 

He  set  his  teeth  with  a  gasping  exclamation ;  the 
blood  went  pounding  through  his  heart.  His 
fingers  had  shut  on  a  folded  paper,  smooth  and  thin. 

He  groped  frantically  through  his  pockets;  not  a 
match  remained.  He  dropped  the  letter  and 
fumbled  through  cupboards  and  boxes,  flinging  out 
books  and  food  and  ammunition  in  mad  disorder. 
Neither  matches  nor  steel  could  he  find.  Winnie 
thrust  in  her  deer-head  with  an  aggrieved  whimper ; 
for  once  in  his  life,  Channing  was  deaf  to  her  hungry 
plea.  He  sprang  into  the  saddle  and  galloped  back 
towards  the  camp.  He  stopped  the  first  wayfarer 
with  a  fierce  shout  which  caused  that  worthy  to 
rise  in  his  stirrups  with  both  hands  lifted  in  a  pose  of 
grandiose  benediction  which  did  not  relax  till 
Channing  had  shrieked  his  demand  for  the  fourth 
time.  "Matches,  man,  matches!  Put  your  hands 
down,  you  fool !  I'm  no  bushwhacker.  Give  me 
some  matches  and  a  candle,  if  you've  got  any  soul 
in  you,  quick!" 


328  Diane 

He  snatched  the  coveted  case  and  whirled 
Winnie  in  her  tracks  with  the  same  jerk.  "I'll  do 
as  much  for  you/'  he  called,  in  tardy  and  unheeded 
gratitude.  A  bullet  purred  past  his  ear;  another 
shot  clipped  his  boot-heel. 

"Go  on,  Winnie,"  he  chuckled,  dropping  flat  on 
her  neck,  as  the  third  shot  missed  his  hat -brim. 
Wild  boyish  exultation  thrilled  him;  he  wanted  to 
shout,  to  cheer.  The  letter  would  be  from  home — 
home !  It  might  be  Friend  Barclay's  belated 
reply;  it  might  be  from  Palmer.  At  any  rate,  it 
would  surely  bring  some  news  of  the  Commune. 

He  lit  the  candle  with  shaking  fingers.  He  tore 
the  letter  across  in  his  frenzy  to  open  it. 

A  clumsy  skull  and  cross-bones  stared  at  him 
from  the  top;  the  message  itself  lurched  in  tipsy 
capitals  across  the  sheet. 

"By  Ordar  of  the  Law  and  Ordar  Men  of  Mo.  you  are 

herby 

WARNED. 
You  ar  suspecced  of  being  in  cahoots,  with  J.  Brown. 

the  outlaw.     You  ar  Knone  to  be  a  Nigger 

Stealer.  and  Abolitionist  get  Out  We  ar  comming  Soon, 
to  make  a  Clean  Sweep" 

There  was  no  signature;  but  a  thread  of  hemp, 
tied  through  the  lower  edge,  served  as  a  grimly 
humorous  seal. 

Channing  looked  at  it  dizzily  for  a  few  minutes. 
His  disappointment  seemed  to  rise  upon  him  in 
engulfing  waves.  Presently  he  took  Winnie  to  her 


Dreams  and  a  "Wakening  329 

stall  and  fed  her  carefully.  Then  he  lit  a  fire  on  the 
big  hearth,  still  littered  with  the  ashes  of  a  month 
ago,  and  threw  the  letter  on  the  blazing  sticks.  His 
eyes  were  bright  with  harsh,  ruthless  mirth  at 
his  own  foolery;  his  mouth  shut  in  indomitable 
lines. 

He  rose  before  daylight  the  next  morning,  and 
went  down  to  the  camp.  The  town  seethed  in 
uproarious  confusion ;  for  a  carrier  had  just  galloped 
in,  shouting  that  a  body  of  raiders  was  a  few  miles 
behind,  on  the  way  to  attack  the  settlement. 
Lawrence  was  still  fortified  by  the  primitive  earth 
works  which  had  been  built  the  preceding  year,  a 
series  of  circular  mounds,  perhaps  seven  feet  in 
height,  connected  by  long  lines  of  earth  entrench 
ments  and  rifle-pits.  The  citizens,  as  well  as  the 
emigrants,  were  well  armed;  but  there  was  no 
organisation  among  them,  and  little  training.  They 
had  no  leader;  they  had  no  plan  of  concerted  action. 
Despite  their  numbers,  it  was  plain  that  a  small  body 
of  raiders,  well  drilled,  would  be  able  to  sweep 
everything  before  them. 

Channing  considered  the  state  of  things.  He  had 
meant  to  spend  the  next  few  weeks  in  breaking  up 
his  prairie  farm  and  in  making  his  cabin  tight  and 
warm  for  the  winter.  It  did  not  matter,  though ; 
there  would  be  time  enough  for  that  when  Indian 
summer  came.  Meanwhile,  the  town  needed  what 
help  he  could  give.  It  was  as  well. 

Afterwards,  he  looked  back  on  those  weeks  as 


33°  Diane 

into  a  welter  of  toil.  No  one  incident  stood  out  dis 
tinctly  in  his  memory ;  the  days  had  slid  like  leaden 
beads  upon  a  string  of  sleep.  It  was  one  unbroken 
round  of  labour,  body  and  soul.  He  went  to  his 
work  in  the  gray  morning,  still  numbed  with  heavy 
slumber;  he  put  down  saw  or  chisel  long  enough  to 
swallow  the  coarse  food  provided  at  noon  and  at 
night;  when  the  last  light  failed,  he  dragged  his 
aching  bones  to  the  cleared  space  outside  the  earth 
works,  where  the  citizens  held  their  military  practice, 
and  spent  hours  by  flickering  torchlight,  drilling  the 
tired  emigrants.  During  the  first  fortnight,  he 
served  a  watch  as  one  of  the  cavalry  patrol,  but  as 
the  days  went  on  and  the  threatened  attack  did  not 
occur,  fewer  men  were  told  off  for  sentry  duty. 
His  great  strength  responded  magnificently  to  each 
task;  yet  there  were  nights  when  he  pitched  forward, 
dead  asleep,  on  Winnie's  neck,  before  she  could 
gallop  the  short  mile  from  the  town  to  his  cabin. 

He  was  not  alone  in  his  diligence.  It  was  a 
month  of  heroic  labours.  The  men  toiled  like 
fiends  at  the  ploughing  till  the  autumn  storms  drove 
them  to  camp;  there  they  spent  every  moment 
snatched  from  their  outdoor  work  on  the  rough- 
carpentered  chairs  and  bunks  which  were  to  furnish 
their  makeshift  cabins  for  the  winter.  The  women 
did  not  stop  with  their  appointed  and  traditional 
duties.  They  cleaned  rifles,  they  fed  and  watered 
the  animals;  they  helped  to  chink  and  plaster  the 
cabins  by  day,  and  ordered  their  tents  or  baked  their 


Dreams  and  a  Wakening  331 

bread  by  torchlight.  With  all  the  haste  and 
weariness  and  strain,  there  was  mirth  and  to  spare 
in  the  camp.  High  courage  kindled  high  mood. 
Dangers  might  beset  each  hour;  but  they  had  not 
fought  their  way  through  the  perils  of  their  long 
journey  to  lose  hope  now,  when  all  that  remained 
for  them  to  do  was  to  hold  the  ground  already 
won. 

By  early  November,  their  toil  had  wrought 
miracles.  Each  family  was  provided  with  a  cabin; 
a  mere  shell  of  logs  or  plank,  it  is  true,  with  roofing 
of  " shakes" — broad,  flat  pieces  of  wood  or  bark — 
and  rough  board  floors;  but  a  home-nest,  dear  and 
beautiful  as  only  the  work  of  their  own  hands 
could  be.  The  fields  were  ready  for  the  sowing. 
The  entrenchments  were  raised  and  strengthened. 
As  the  stress  of  haste  abated,  the  emigrants  grew 
childishly  jubilant.  They  played  boisterous  jokes 
on  each  other ;  they  sang  and  shouted  at  their  work, 
they  put  aside  their  carpentry  at  night,  and  frolicked 
instead.  Channing  watched  their  elation  in  silence. 
For  him.  the  lessening  of  the  strain  was  no  mercy. 
Exhausted  as  he  was,  he  dreaded  the  coming  leisure ; 
for  with  leisure  would  come  memory. 

Young  Hurlburt  rode  into  town  often  from  his 
neighbouring  claim,  with  Harriet  perched  dimpling 
behind  him.  They  dragged  Channing  home  with 
them  by  main  force  on  two  momentous  occasions; 
the  morning  when  their  new  hearth  was  to  be  chris 
tened — a  wonderful  hearth,  indeed,  faced  with  real 


332  Diane 

brick,  instead  of  the  hard-packed  earth  trough 
which  held  the  sacred  fire  in  other  cabins;  and 
again  on  the  evening  of  Harriet's  twentieth  birth 
day.  Their  generous  intent  missed  fire.  Channing 
did  his  best  to  follow  their  ecstatic  lead;  but  his 
was  at  best  a  flagging  step.  They  showered  him 
with  loving  hospitalities  whenever  they  remembered 
their  guest  long  enough  to  take  their  eyes  from 
each  other ;  but  those  moments  were  far  between,  and 
it  was  with  distinct  relief  that  he  took  his  departure. 
Young  Hurlburt  was  deeply  injured  by  his  guest's 
lack  of  enthusiasm;  Harriet,  mystically  wise,  smiled 
at  her  love's  petulance,  and  refused  to  be  aggrieved 
when  Channing  inspected  her  cupboards  with  a  lack 
lustre  eye  and  ate  her  festival  cakes  and  cream  with 
callous  unconcern. 

"I  am  so  glad  we  made  him  come/'  she  said, 
dreamily,  as  Winnie  and  her  rider  vanished  in  the 
dusk  of  the  prairie.  "I  do  like  him  so  much,  the 
dear  fellow.  And  it  may  help  him  to  make  up  his 
mind.  One  never  knows " 

"Indeed,  one  never  knows!"  snapped  young 
Hurlburt,  slashing  fiercely  into  the  loaf  of  cake. 
"  I  thought  he  was  one  of  the  finest  men  I'd  ever 
met,  so  generous  and  so  sympathetic,  or  I'd  never 
have  asked  him  here.  What  a  blockhead  he  is, 
anyway !  Why,  I  showed  him  the  quilts  you've 
made  since  we  came  here,  and  the  brace  you  contrived 
for  holding  the  windows  in  when  there's  a  storm, 
and  all  your  dried  fruit,  even,  and  he  hadn't  a  blessed 


Dreams  and  a  Wakening  333 

word  to  say — just  stood  there  and  gaped  at  it  all, 
the  great  chuck!  His  mare  Winnie  would  have 
had  more  manners." 

Harriet  turned  and  gazed  at  her  husband.  Her 
brown  eyes  overflowed  with  a  deep,  beatific  smile. 

"Tom,"  said  she,  solemnly.  "You  don't  know 
how  happy  you  make  me.  Sometimes  I  waken  in 
the  night,  and  think  how  beautiful  it  all  is,  and 
how  different — how  miserable  I'd  be,  if  I'd  made  a 
mistake  and  married  a  man  with  brains.  It's  the 
luckiest  thing  in  this  world,  dear,  that  you  haven't 
any " 

"What!"  Tom  dropped  the  cake,  and  leaped 
up,  with  his  mouth  full.  Harriet  made  a  wild 
effort  to  escape,  but  a  two-roomed  cabin  offers  few 
ambuscades.  In  the  conflict  which  ensued,  its 
sieges,  its  repulses,  its  final  surrender,  Channing  and 
his  woes  were  ingloriously  forgotten. 

Perhaps  a  week  later,  Harriet  rode  past  his  claim 
on  her  way  to  fetch  the  mail.  It  was  the  day  for 
the  stage ;  no  emigrant  so  hurried  that  he  could  not 
pause  long  enough  to  go  into  town  and  hear  the 
news  "from  the  States."  There  might  be  no 
possibility  of  letters  for  him.  No  matter.  His 
neighbours  would  share  with  him  every  word, 
precious  as  bar-gold,  of  the  messages  from  home. 

Channing,  standing  in  his  doorway,  waved  his 
hat  to  her.  She  responded  with  the  shrill  question, 
"Shall  I  bring  your  letters,  too?" 

Even  at  that  distance,  she  fancied  that  he  changed 


334  Diane 

colour.  Her  clear  brows  knitted  at  his  disclaim 
ing  shrug,  his  courteous,  indifferent  reply.  She 
brought  his  mail,  however — a  roll  of  Eastern 
journals,  tightly  corded,  and  two  letters,  which  she 
thrust  into  the  package  of  papers  for  safe-keeping. 
Among  Tom's  mail  she  noticed  one  document,  the 
duplicate  of  one  of  Channing's  letters  in  every 
particular.  She  opened  it  coolly;  she  laughed  at  it 
pluckily.  A  fearsome  skull  and  cross-bones  were 
drawn  as  heading;  a  string  of  hemp  formed  its  only 
signature.  Another  Warning. 

She  left  Channing's  parcel  on  the  table  in  his 
empty  cabin,  and  rode  on  down  the  claim  till  she 
met  him,  plowing  with  the  affronted  Winnie,  at  its 
farthest  edge.  He  looked  up  eagerly  as  she  ap 
proached;  her  frost  of  pique  melted  at  the  dull 
shadows  under  his  gray  eyes,  the  steely  lines  around 
his  mouth. 

"I  brought  you  some  mail,  too,"  she  cried.  She 
pushed  the  crisp  brown  curls  away  from  her  sweet, 
flushed  face,  and  leaned  towards  him  with  dancing 
eyes.  A  roll  of  papers,  and  a  letter,  like  this  one,  I 
think — for  they're  on  the  same  paper,  and  written 
in  the  same  hand.  Shall  we  yield,  or  shall  we  stay  ? 
Lead  on,  Macduff!" 

Channing  laughed  with  her.  It  was  impossible 
to  be  gloomy  in  her  happy  presence.  "I've  had 
several  already,"  he  returned,  "and  I  still  live." 

"So  have  we.  Our  last  one  had  nine  misspelled 
words  in  it.  'We'll  wait,'  said  Tom,  'till  they  learn 


Dreams  and  a  Wakening  335 

to  spell  half  their  Warning  right;  then  we'll  know 
they're  in  deadly  earnest.'  But  there  are  ten  blun 
ders  in  this  letter,  so  I  think  we'll  not  pack  just  yet." 

She  bent  from  her  saddle  to  pat  the  disconsolate 
Winnie,  whose  downfall  in  profession  had  em 
bittered  her  spirit,  then  galloped  away. 

Channing  kept  on  at  his  work.  It  threatened 
rain,  and  this  ploughing  must  be  done  before  good 
weather  failed  him.  The  magazines  had  been  sent 
in  reply  to  an  order  which  he  had  posted  to  Boston 
six  weeks  since.  They  could  wait  until  evening. 
The  letter  would  probably  wait  still  longer.  This 
must  be  the  fifth,  he  computed,  with  some  amuse 
ment.  The  Law  and  Order  element  must  be 
feverishly  anxious  to  rid  the  Territory  of  his  cor 
rupting  presence. 

It  was  nearly  night  when  he  turned  the  last 
furrow,  and  coaxed  Winnie  up  the  homeward  hill. 
The  Indian  summer  of  the  morning  had  yielded 
treacherously  to  a  swift  and  biting  chill.  The 
wind  rose  suddenly,  a  long,  harsh,  piercing  wail;  it 
was  so  dark  that  Channing  tripped  against  his  own 
door-stone,  not  knowing  that  he  had  reached  his 
cabin. 

He  bedded  Winnie  for  the  night,  then  ate  his 
supper,  and  settled  down  by  the  fire,  lapped  in  the 
double  luxury  of  warmth  and  comradeship;  for 
the  Liberator  lay  open  upon  his  knee,  and  an  armful 
of  uncut  books  and  newspapers  awaited  his  hand. 
He  read  the  newspapers,  great  flapping  sheets  that 


336  Diane 

they  were,  from  the  three-inch  strip  of  European 
news  in  the  upper  left-hand  corner  of  the  front 
page,  to  the  advertisement  of  Bitters  in  the 
lower  right-hand  corner  of  the  last ;  he  browsed 
deliciously  through  a  fresh  Atlantic,  only  two 
months  old;  he  fingered  the  clean  books  with 
longing  touches.  There  was  a  fat,  paper-bound 
novel,  printed  on  the  coarsest  of  paper,  illustrated 
amazingly,  bearing  on  its  modest  title-page  the 
name  of  one  Benjamin  Titmarsh,  and  a  thin  volume 
of  poems,  roughly  bound,  too,  under  the  title 
"Bells  and  Pomegranates,"  the  work  of  a  young 
Mr.  Browning,  of  London.  He  must  not  insist  on 
reading  them  to-night,  he  told  himself  sternly.  It 
would  never  do  to  swallow  all  his  tidbits  at  one 
gulp.  There  were  plenty  of  lonely  evenings  to 
come. 

A  whirl  of  sleet  clashed  on  the  window,  like  a 
charge  of  elfin  bayonets.  He  stood  up,  shaking  him 
self  drowsily,  and  stooped  to  gather  up  his  precious 
papers.  At  the  bottom  of  the  pile  lay  the  Warning, 
still  unopened.  He  picked  it  up,  then  dropped  it  as 
though  it  scorched  his  fingers.  Beneath  it  lay  an 
other  folded  sheet;  lilac;  scented;  thin.  The  close, 
dainty,  handwriting  waved  and  scintillated  before 
his  eyes. 

Rose's  hand !    Rose's  letter ! 

He  sat  down  again,  and  opened  it,  quietly.  It 
took  him  some  time  to  read  it.  The  words  blinked 
and  flickered ;  the  cabin  darkened  and  grew  bright, 


Dreams  and  a  Wakening  337 

gloomed  and  blazed  again,  like  the  pulse  of  a  re 
volving  beacon  afar  at  sea. 

'"Sydney  Palmer  went  away  in  July.  To  his 
plantations,  I  think;  none  of  us  have  heard/ 
'I'm  worried  about  Diane.'  'She's  lonely.' 
'  Friend  Barclay  says  that  Pere  Cabet  cannot  live — 
much  longer.'  '  Father  thinks  she  should  go  back  to 
France,  but  she  won't  hear  of  it.'  'She  looks  tired 
and  not  very  well.'  'Madame  Manderson  wants 
her,  for  all  the  time.  So  do  I.  But  there's  no 
telling  how  it  will  all  end.' >: 

Channing  folded  the  fragrant  sheet  and  put  it 
carefully  into  his  pocket-book.  He  caught  his 
saddle-bags  from  their  rack  and  packed  them 
swiftly.  He  made  up  a  little  parcel  of  food,  he 
cleaned  and  loaded  his  revolvers.  His  shadow 
leaped  monstrous  from  floor  to  ceiling;  the  man 
himself  seemed  to  broaden  and  grow  tall.  There 
was  a  panther  lightness  in  his  long,  springing  step. 
His  blue  eyes  blazed  darkly ;  his  hands  shook  as  he 
buckled  on  his  heavy  riding-clothes,  and  snatched 
the  tight -strapped  blankets  from  the  press.  He 
did  not  stop  to  put  out  his  lamp.  He  forgot  the 
fire  upon  the  hearth.  The  cabin  door  crashed 
behind  him  as  he  strode  out  into  the  roaring  night. 

The  wind  pounced  down  upon  him,  shrieking 
like  a  gigantic  hawk;  the  sleet  clawed  and  stung 
him.  He  fought  his  way  to  the  stable  and  saddled 
Winnie.  With  the  instinct  of  her  race,  the  creature 
rose  to  his  high  mood.  She  took  the  bridle  without 


338  Diane 

a  whimper;  she  tucked  her  soft  nose  against  his 
shoulder  for  the  moment's  caress;  then,  as  he 
mounted,  she  sprang  away  down  the  slope,  her 
slim  hoofs  beating  time  to  the  thunder  of  his  heart. 

Open  and  fair  by  day,  the  prairie  swells  were 
treacherous  as  quicksands  by  night.  The  long 
grass  tripped  and  snared.  The  prairie-dog  villages 
were  so  many  death-traps.  Channing  urged  Winnie 
on  without  a  thought  of  fear.  For  all  that  he 
knew,  he  rode  through  a  velvet  parkway,  cleared  as 
for  a  parade-ground  beneath  his  horse's  feet. 

The  months  of  hard  self-control,  of  waiting,  of 
silence,  were  swept  forth,  futile  barriers,  on  the 
high  tide  of  his  passion.  The  stern  duty  which 
had  brought  him  here  was  a  fading  recollection. 
The  plans  for  the  years  to  come  had  lapsed  back 
into  formless  clay.  Memory  and  Hope  and  Being 
fused  into  that  one  whispered  name — "  Diane ! 
Diane!" 

"'She  has  been  lonely/"  True.  By  his  gray 
days,  his  sleepless  nights,  he  knew  what  her  loneliness 
had  cost.  The  longing  to  soothe,  to  cheer,  to 
comfort,  the  passion  to  protect,  urged  him  with 
sharper  thrust  than  the  sting  of  his  love  itself. 
There  was  Palmer — what  of  Palmer?  He  could 
give,  give ;  tinsel  splendours,  air-drawn  rank.  What 
need  had  her  pure  beauty  of  his  decking?  What 
honours  that  he  might  bring  could  lift  her  higher  than 
the  pinnacle  on  which  she  stood  by  right  of  blood — 
she,  his  princess,  his  rose  of  all  the  world  ? 


Dreams  and  a  Wakening  339 

Through  these  days,  when  he  had  thought  himself 
fulfilling  his  work  of  reason  and  of  sacrifice,  he  had 
gone  chained  and  blinded,  the  vassal  of  a  dream. 
Now  were  the  chains  struck  off,  the  dulled  eyes  un 
sealed.  The  clock  of  Destiny  had  struck  for  him 
once  more.  Now  sounded  the  reveille  of  his  soul. 

The  thoughts  swept  to  him,  broken,  vague,  as 
borne  on  the  gusts  of  the  storm.  Perhaps  they 
were  not  thoughts ;  rather  the  low  whisperings  of  the 
instinct  which  urged  him  onwards  through  the  night. 
For  he  went  not  as  the  prudent  suitor,  the  assured 
claimant,  fond  and  calm.  As  the  primeval  man 
leaped  forth  to  find  the  mate  who  wailed  to  him  for 
aid,  he  sped.  No  doubts  could  trammel,  no  fears 
could  balk.  By  every  right  of  earth,  by  every  hope 
of  Heaven,  she  was  his.  Rapturous,  inexorable, 
adoring,  the  eternal  lover  strode  forth  to  claim  his 
own. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
TRIUMPH 

THE  Tennessee  swung  her  bow  alongside  the 
landing,  and  dropped  her  gang-plank,  with  a  clash 
of  gongs  and  a  clamour  of  chain.  The  passengers 
on  the  upper  deck  elbowed  forward  for  a  glimpse 
of  the  famous  Temple,  but  forgot  the  intent  in 
delighted  curiosity  over  the  group  which  waited 
on  the  little  pier.  They  were  like  nothing  so  much 
as  an  army  of  Noah's  Ark  dolls,  declared  one  viva 
cious  damsel,  flinging  her  lace  scarf  back  over  her 
frilled  and  blossoming  bonnet,  to  get  a  better  view. 
They  huddled  together,  a  solemn-eyed  phalanx, 
clutching  great  bundles,  and  hedged  in  by  huge 
osier  baskets,  packed  to  bursting.  There  was 
something  quaintly  foreign  in  their  coarse  uniform 
of  jeans  and  flannel,  their  wooden  shoes,  their  occa 
sional  bit  of  misplaced  finery — a  piece  of  fur,  a 
lace,  a  jewel.  There  was  something  weird  and 
pathetic  in  their  abject  dependence  on  their  leader, 
who  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  group  of  every-day 
friends,  blind  to  their  woebegone  glances,  their 
shuffling  bewilderment.  And  such  a  leader  ! 

"He's  a  prince  of  the  Empire,  not  a  Noah," 
declared  the  girl  on  the  upper  deck,  shading  her 

340 


Triumph  341 

eyes  to  stare  at  him  with  eager  interest.  Brave 
in  his  quaint  velvet  cloak  and  snowy  frills  of  old- 
world  fashion,  yet  wan  and  absent,  he  looked  a 
phantom  prince,  indeed,  beside  the  ruddy  old 
neighbour  in  Quaker  gray  and  demure  broad-brim, 
who  had  pushed  his  way  to  the  front  for  a  last  hand 
shake.  Yet  the  eyes  of  all  turned  from  the  emigrants 
and  their  puzzling  commander  to  watch  two  girls, 
who  stood  together,  a  little  apart  from  the  crowd. 
Though  there  was  no  tang  of  frost  in  the  mild 
November  air,  they  were  both  veiled,  and  muffled 
in  long  cloaks,  whose  masking  outlines  piqued  the 
curiosity  of  the  dullest.  The  taller  of  the  two,  a 
stately  figure  in  her  trailing  scarlet  and  velvet  hood, 
bent  to  the  other  and  spoke  swiftly  and  low.  One 
must  stand  close  to  catch  the  whispered  words. 

"  And  you'll  be  careful  of  yourself,  Diane,  dearest  ? 
You're  to  write  to  me  every  week,  now  remember. 
And  if  anything  goes  wrong,  you  will  go  directly  to 
the  Sisters  at  the  Sacre  Cceur.  You  have  promised 
me  that,  now,  remember." 

"I  promise  you,  Mademoiselle." 

"I  just  don't  know  how  to  let  you  go."  Rose's 
voice  quivered.  Her  mother  heart,  sweetly  dic 
tatorial,  devoted,  insistent,  conquered  every  other 
instinct.  "It's  hard  enough  for  you,  but  it's  going 
to  leave  me  with  nothing — nothing !  Now,  dear, 
don't !  Are  you  sure  you  have  the  warm  shawl  that 
Madame  knitted  for  you,  and  the  slippers?  I  do 
hope  Persis'  preserves  won't  spill  all  over  everything. 


342  Diane 

I  had  her  put  in  some  jelly,  too.  Remember,  if 
you're  sick,  or  need  me,  I  shall  come,  right  away. 
And  now — why,  Sydney  Palmer !  Where  did  you 
drop  from?" 

Palmer,  from  his  chair  on  the  upper  deck,  had 
watched  the  little  scene,  not  dreaming  that  he 
knew  its  actors,  till  Diane  lifted  her  veil  for  Rose's 
kiss.  Two  strides  carried  him  down  the  steep 
steps ;  he  leaped  ashore  with  a  shout.  "Miss  Diane ! 
You're  not  going  away!  What  on  earth  does  it 
mean  ? " 

Diane  stepped  back,  her  eyes  widening.  Her  little 
hand  caught  at  her  throat.  "  You,  M'sieu  Palmer  ! " 
she  faltered.  "You  are  returned?  And  is  it  that 
you  bring  me  news  of  the  Capitaine  Channing? 
Does  he  live  ?  Is  he  well  ?  " 

For  all  her  excitement,  Rose  felt  a  tingle  of  ad 
miration.  The  boy  faced  the  rebuff  so  manfully! 
She  had  long  since  divined  his  secret.  She  alone 
could  guess  how  deep  the  sting  of  Diane's  words 
must  be.  His  voice  never  wavered  from  its  tone 
of  glad  surprise ;  he  caught  Diane's  hands  as  though 
the  heart  of  her  greeting  were  all  for  him. 

"  I  haven't  heard  a  word  from  him,  Mademoiselle. 
I'm  sorry.  You  see,  I  came  back  from  the  East 
by  way  of  the  Great  Lakes.  I  haven't  had  a 
letter  from  anybody  since  I  left  the  plantations; 
and,  of  course,  I've  not  been  anywhere  near  Kansas 
Territory.  But  do  tell  me.  Are  you  going  away, 
and  to  stay  away?" 


Triumph  343 

"Diane,  you  must  go  aboard.  They're  waiting 
on  you  now,  dear.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it,  Sydney." 

"But,  Mademoiselle!"  Daring  hope  flashed  into 
Palmer's  eyes.  "Won't  you  let  me  come  aboard 
and  talk  with  you  till  we  reach  the  next  landing? 
That  will  be  the  Government  fleet,  and  I  was  going 
there,  anyway.  It's  been  so  long  since  I  have  seen 
you,  and  it  may  be  a  longer  while  before  we  meet 
again." 

Diane  tried  to  answer  courteously;  but  her  pale 
lips,  her  troubled  eyes,  spoke  her  true  reply. 

"No,  no,  I'll  not  come  !"  he  interrupted,  laughing. 
"  I  can  see  that  you  do  not  want  me.  You'll  be  so 
busy  composing  your  first  letter  to  Miss  Rose,  here, 
that  you  will  have  no  time  for  me.  Permit  me, 
Mademoiselle.  And  now,  good-bye.  A  joyful  jour 
ney  to  you,  and  a  safe  return !" 

The  great  boat  backed  into  mid-channel,  with  a 
snarl  of  pent  water  and  a  roar  of  escaping  steam. 
Rose  pushed  her  veil  away  and  watched  the  group 
on  the  lower  deck  till  the  river  haze  blurred  the 
faces  from  her  sight.  She  turned  then  to  speak  to 
Palmer.  His  eyes  were  still  fixed  on  the  boat, 
intent  and  straining.  The  lines  around  his  boyish 
mouth  made  her  turn  away  without  a  word. 

Anxious  and  depressed  as  she  was,  the  surprises 
of  the  river  journey  were  a  perpetual  delight  to 
Diane.     She   was   too   shy  by   nature  to   respond 
easily   to   the   advances   of   her   fellow-passengers. 


344  Diane 

They  were  most  amiable,  indeed;  it  was  a  thing 
astonishing  that  they  should  turn  from  their  way  to 
lavish  such  generous  courtesies  upon  her,  a  stranger. 
Yet  she  shrank  away  when  the  men,  splendid 
dandies  in  broadcloth  and  waistcoats  of  brocade, 
doffed  their  swelling  beavers  and  hovered  about, 
elbowing  for  the  privilege  of  carrying  her  cloak,  her 
gloves,  her  chair.  Her  lips  forgot  even  their  few 
stilted  phrases  of  English  when  the  women,  plumed 
and  rustling,  floated  across  the  deck,  under  full  sail, 
to  bend  and  caress  her.  One  found  always  friends  in 
this  kind  America ;  but  when,  out  of  all  this  smiling 
world,  one  desires  to  see  but  two  faces,  one  is,  indeed, 
lonely. 

She  preferred  to  sit  for  hours  alone  with  Pere 
Cabet,  absorbed  in  the  gliding  drama  of  the  shore. 
There  were  the  river  towns,  standing  at  every  turn 
and  bend  of  the  low,  green  banks;  broad,  scattered 
villages  barricaded  by  great  stone  warehouses 
solid  as  medieval  fortresses.  These  citizens  adored 
their  river;  so  much  was  certain.  At  the  first  snort 
of  the  whistle,  each  man  dropped  his  work  and 
sped  madly  to  the  shore  to  see  the  boat  come  in. 
The  marvel  of  a  steamer's  landing  was  theirs  three 
times  a  day ;  but  to  their  eyes  the  bloom  was  never 
rubbed  from  the  miracle.  There  were  the  countless 
private  landings — sometimes  a  mere  heap  of  boards 
on  the  bank  surmounted  by  a  signal  light,  with  no 
sign  of  life  for  miles  about  till  the  steamer  headed 
for  the  shore.  Then  there  would  appear,  as  by 


Triumph  345 

magic,  scores  of  woolly  heads,  popping  up  wildly 
through  the  rent  willow  fringe,  like  figures  in  a 
pantomime.  The  shore  would  of  a  sudden  be 
thronged  with  lumbering  carts,  piled  high  with 
giant  hogsheads  of  tobacco;  droves  of  hogs  and 
sheep  and  cattle  would  plunge  distractedly  up  and 
down  the  narrow  bank,  scuttling  in  every  direction 
but  the  right  one,  while  their  exasperated  drivers 
vied  with  the  mate  in  shrill  commands  and  curses- 
Diane's  excitement  rose  to  fever  pitch  on  the  last 
afternoon,  when  three  sheep,  after  leading  the 
roust ers  a  maddening  chase,  plunged  from  the 
gang-plank,  just  as  their  enraged  drivers  thought 
them  safely  cornered,  and  splashed  beneath  the 
tumbling  yellow  water. 

"After  them,  boys !"  bellowed  the  mate. 

Three  rousters  dropped  off  the  boat  before  the 
words  were  out  of  his  mouth.  Diane  gasped- 
There  was  a  shout  of  laughter  from  the  passengers, 
as  the  three  blacks  disappeared,  to  bob  to  the 
surface  again  almost  in  the  same  breath,  each 
gripping  a  soaked  and  squeaking  victim.  Diane 
laughed  aloud  as  they  clambered  aboard,  every 
black  mouth  a  grinning  cavern,  and  dropped  the 
sheep  to  scuffle  for  the  hail  of  coins  which  rattled 
down  from  the  upper  deck.  "  Voila,  mon  pere,  mon 
ami,*'  she  cried,  patting  the  old  man's  arm.  He 
had  not  seemed  to  see. 

"Ah,  la,  la,"  he  murmured,  drowsily.  Always  he 
sat  quietly,  these  strange  days,  his  eyes  half -closed, 


346  Diane 

his  lips  dim-smiling,  as  one  who  dreams.  "Tiens- 
vous  tranquille,  ma  petite !  Presently  the  good 
Sister  will  come,  and  release  you  from  the  harp  for 
to-day.  Then  you  will  take  your  doll,  and  you  will 
lead  the  Pere  Cabet  through  the  gardens,  that  he 
may  see  the  pigeons  and  the  new  little  pigs,  not  so  ? 
Patience  till  your  task  is  complete,  Diane,  my 
treasure,  my  trust." 

Diane  leaned  back  in  her  chair.  The  great 
golden  river,  the  noble  hills,  sank  and  faded  to  ashen 
dust  before  her  eyes. 

They  fought  their  way  ashore  at  the  St.  Louis 
wharf  that  night,  through  tumult  of  shouts 
and  crash  of  hoofs  that  drowned  the  thunder  of 
the  swift-rising  storm.  Pere  Cabet,  always  the  alert, 
cool  leader,  stood  back  perplexed  and  helpless 
before  the  confusion.  His  handful  of  followers, 
aghast  at  the  calamity  of  his  bewilderment,  huddled 
back  into  dark  corners,  and  clung  to  their  precious 
bundles  in  mortal  panic.  The  women  wept  copi 
ously.  The  men  wrangled  in  shrill  terror-smitten 
voices,  each  one  demanding  that  the  other  should 
take  the  lead,  while  stewards  and  deck-hands  stood 
grinning,  half  in  sympathy,  half  in  amusement,  at 
the  melee. 

Diane  looked  wildly  about  her.  The  captain 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  The  emigrants  were 
pushing  and  crowding  on  the  lower  deck,  directly  at 
the  foot  of  the  main  stairway,  thus  preventing  the 
passengers  above  from  making  their  way  off  the 


Triumph  347 

boat.  Loud  complaints  at  the  delay  already  reached 
her  ears.  Pere  Cabet  looked  into  her  troubled  eyes 
with  his  dim,  remembering  smile. 

"Patience,  my  little  beloved,"  he  said,  with  a 
sigh.  "The  ordeal  will  not  be  for  long.  Soon  the 
Sister  comes,  to  release  you.  And  then " 

Diane  drew  a  long  breath.  Something  stirred 
and  stung  within  her  heart.  The  courage  of  a 
blood  that  had  been  spilled  for  pledge  and  fealty  at 
Ivry  and  at  Ramillies  lit  her  pale  cheeks.  She  slid 
her  little  hand  through  Pere  Cabet 's  arm  to  steady 
him.  She  turned  and  faced  the  whining  rabble 
at  her  heels. 

"Come,  my  brothers."  Her  voice  rang  stern  and 
sweet.  "Let  each  man  carry  his  own  goods,  and 
let  each  family  walk  alone,  in  a  group  separate, 
toute  seule,  that  we  may  not  become  confused. 
You,  my  friends,"  she  swept  her  hand  towards  the 
line  of  waiting  negroes,  "attach  yourselves  each  to 
a  group,  as  they  form,  and  carry  for  them  that 
which  they  cannot  carry  for  themselves.  The 
Pere  Cabet  and  I  will  lead  you.  No  more  tears t 
mes  enf ants !  Guard  each  his  own ;  so  shall  we 
proceed  with  ease.  Come!" 

The  emigrants  hushed  their  excitement  beneath 
her  gentle  word,  and  obeyed  her  orders  on  the 
moment.  The  negroes,  catching  the  note  of  true 
authority,  fell  into  line,  each  with  his  load  of  plunder. 
More  than  one  passer-by  stopped  to  watch  the 
fantastic  procession  as  it  wound  through  the  noisy 


348  Diane 

streets.  The  tall  old  man,  his  white  hair  falling 
silken  over  the  cape  of  his  courtly  mantle;  the 
blossom-child,  with  her  brave  lips,  her  dark,  anxious 
eyes;  the  file  of  tired  men  and  women  flanked  on 
either  side  by  half -naked  negroes,  whose  bare  arms 
and  rolling  eyeballs  glittered  as  they  struggled  on 
before  the  rising  storm. 

The  big  barrack  of  a  house  which  was  to  serve  as 
their  lodging  for  the  first  few  days  was  cold  and 
comfortless,  yet  to  their  eyes  it  was  a  very  fastness 
of  peace.  Diane  apportioned  rooms  and  gave 
directions  for  the  work  of  the  morrow.  Then  she 
climbed  the  long  stair  to  the  little  room  which  Pere 
Cabet  had  chosen  for  his  own.  The  rain  dripped 
from  the  fringes  of  her  long,  green  mantle ;  her  hair 
clung  in  wet,  misty  rings,  shadowing  the  pearl 
shadows  of  her  face. 

Pere  Cabet  crouched  in  a  great  carved  chair  at 
the  writing-table.  A  mass  of  documents  lay  open 
before  him.  He  was  tumbling  them  over  and  over 
with  pallid,  rambling  hands.  He  muttered  to 
himself  constantly,  a  piteous,  imploring  moan. 

Diane  stopped  on  the  threshold ;  the  horror  of  it 
all  but  quenched  her  spirit.  Then  he  glanced  up, 
and  the  tide  of  her  courage  rose  once  more.  Agony 
was  written  deep  in  every  line  of  that  blanched 
face;  but  it  was  the  agony  of  reason.  The  calm 
of  a  past  forgot  was  his  no  longer.  Again  he 
knew  the  tortures  of  hope  deferred,  the  poison 
of  defeat. 


Triumph  349 

"Behold,  my  little  one."  He  spread  a  broad 
parchment  on  the  table.  His  eyes  groped  for 
comfort  in  her  own.  "Here  is  the  sketch  of  my 
Commune,  as  I  have  always  hoped  to  make  it,  my 
vision,  my  ideal,  dost  thou  see?  Regard  the  plan; 
it  is  as  a  vast  wheel,  a  star,  with  farms  and  work 
shops  and  mills  raying  from  the  Phalanstery  as  a 
centre.  Behold  these  broad  streets;  in  my  dreams 
have  I  paced  their  shaded  pavements  till  I  know 
each  stone,  each  blossom  by  the  way.  Look  at  the 
farms,  each  a  world  complete  in  itself,  where  parents 
and  children  may  work  and  frolic  together,  if  it 
pleases  them  not  to  come  to  the  Phalanstery  for 
their  diversion.  Ah,  my  Phalanstery !  It  was 
not  to  be  as  was  our  real  abode,  a  house  of  wood, 
rough,  perishable.  It  was  to  be  of  the  fine  stone, 
carven  like  the  fretted  gold  about  your  pearls.  Its 
doors  were  to  be  of  the  noble  woods,  all  polished, 
smooth  as  silver;  its  windows,  great  jewels.  On  its 
high  walls  the  oaths  of  the  Commune  were  to  stand 
written  in  gold,  undying  garlands.  It  was  to  be 
the  soul,  the  essence  of  our  Commune  life.  It  has 
been  the  palace  of  my  dreams,  all  these  years 
unending.  Truly  it  has  been  a  dream-palace. 
Never  shall  human  hands  make  it  real ! 

"  How  I  have  toiled  and  studied  and  planned,  all 
these  black  years  of  my  exile!  How  I  have  re 
joiced  when  my  release  has  come,  and  I  may  build 
my  hopes  in  wood  and  stone !  Why  did  it  fail, 
Diane  ?  Truly,  I  am  but  human ;  I  have  the  faults 


350  Diane 

of  all  my  race.  But  the  Plan  was  divine.  It  held 
no  flaw.  How  could  it  fail  ?" 

A  gust  of  rain  hissed  down  the  chimney.  The 
house  jarred  and  quivered  under  the  heaving 
shoulder  of  the  storm. 

"And  most  of  all  to  you,  my  heart's  treasure, 
have  I  failed."  All  Diane's  kisses  could  not  smother 
the  slow  self-condemnation.  "I  have  reared  you 
in  obscurity,  you,  the  princess  of  all  the  world.  I 
have  torn  you  from  the  cloister  that  you  loved,  I 
have  cast  you  into  this  land  most  harsh  and  bitter. 
I  shall  leave  you  here,  orphan  and  alone,  with  none 
to  save.  Father  and  mother,  saints  in  Heaven,  have 
pity  upon  me!  Forgive!  I  have  done  for  your 
beloved  the  uttermost  that  I  knew.  Blame  not  my 
heart,  but  these  my  foolish  hands." 

"Pere  Cabet,  one  thing  you  have  promised  me." 
Diane  knelt  and  folded  his  hands  in  hers.  Her 
eyes  peered  deep  into  his  tortured  face.  "Always 
you  say  you  will  tell  me  of  my  own  people.  Never 
have  I  known  of  them,  save  that  the  good  Sisters 
keep  for  me  the  dresses  and  the  jewels  of  my  mother. 
Even  my  name,  de  Lahautiere,  carries  no  meaning 
to  me.  You  say  that  I  am  of  noble  blood,  yet  you 
have  taken  me  and  nourished  me  as  your  own ;  you 
have  cared  for  me  as  one  cares  for  the  poor,  the 
forsaken.  Why  is  it  so?  Tell  me  all." 

"It  is  but  little,  ma  petite."  The  old  voice  sank 
to  a  calmer  note;  the  old  hands  fumbled  tenderly 
with  the  shining  head  on  his  knee.  "Thy  father 


Triumph  351 

was  Lucien  Raoul-Marie,  last  of  the  Sieurs  de 
Lahautiere.  It  was  upon  their  lands,  their  bounty, 
that  we  had  lived,  I  and  my  fathers,  from  generation 
to  generation.  They  were  nobles  of  the  old  time, 
of  the  true  stamp,  the  rank  that  none  of  common 
blood  need  ever  hope  to  win.  It  was  a  de  La 
hautiere  who  saved  the  life  of  Richard,  so  tell  the 
old  chroniclers,  at  the  siege  of  Acre.  Edouard, 
heir  to  the  line  it  was,  who  made  of  his  body  a 
shield  before  Anne,  his  queen,  when  a  mob  of  the 
Fronde,  those  plumed  fools,  would  have  plucked  her 
from  her  carriage  to  tear  her  in  pieces  at  the  door 
of  her  own  palace.  Augustin-Marie,  thy  grand 
father  it  was,  who  died  the  death,  sword  in  hand,  on 
the  grand  stair  of  the  Tuileries.  Francois ,  his 
brother — ah,  what  more?  They  were  the  bravest 
of  the  brave.  No  man  of  them  who  failed  to  uphold 
the  pledge  of  his  long  line,  'Toujours  fidele.' 

"  Ah !  and  they  were  merry,  too,  for  joy  is  daughter 
to  courage.  Always  they  lived  as  befitted  the 
friends  of  princes.  By  day  their  doors  stood 
grand 'ouvertes,  wide,  to  whoever  might  pass  by. 
By  night,  the  fishers  might  hear  the  music  and  be 
hold  the  lights  of  the  chateau  through  miles  of  rain. 
Three  hundred  and  sixty-five  windows  blazed  in 
that  great  pile.  For,  said  Edouard,  its  builder,  my 
castle  is  my  year.  Within  it,  I  must  not  forget  the 
light  of  a  single  day.  Thus  built  he,  and  Chateau 
de  TAnn6e  it  remains,  unto  this  hour. 

"Then  came  the  long  tempest  of  the  Revolution. 


352  Diane 

When  its  tide  went  out,  there  lived  only  the  Sieur 
Lucien,  exiled  infant  of  twelve,  and  myself,  Etienne. 
No,  I  am  not  of  thy  kindred,  my  little  one.  But 
as  an  infant  I  had  sworn  my  loyalty  to  the  house 
of  de  Lahautiere ;  never  have  I  broken  faith.  Your 
father's  place  it  was  to  rule;  mine,  to  serve.  Thus 
was  it  ordained  by  blood,  and  in  right  of  blood  lies 
justice. 

"Then  came  the  great  Napoleon.  All  those 
years  the  Sieur  Lucien  fought  with  the  allies,  else 
he  waited,  exile,  at  the  door  of  his  country,  yet 
might  not  venture  within.  Le  Chateau  de  1'Annee 
was  confiscate.  The  new  nobility,  the  shop-made 
dukes — pah,  the  offal ! — sprawled  over  his  estates- 
Nothing  was  left  to  him,  save  the  jewels  which  had 
been  tied  about  his  little  neck  when  his  nurse — my 
mother  she  was,  petite — had  fled  with  him  to 
England.  You  wear  them  now,  my  treasure.  Is  it 
that  you  have  never  known?" 

He  unclasped  the  string  of  gold  beads  from  her 
throat,  and  bent  the  toothed  gold  fastening  gently 
back  and  forth.  It  yielded  readily.  The  enamel 
cases  fell  in  halves  from  the  chain;  a  rope  of  great 
topazes  made  a  ribbon  of  flame  and  dew  across  the 
yellowed  manuscript. 

"They  are  the  talisman,  my  little  one.  They 
have  little  of  value,  as  the  world  counts,  but  priceless 
are  they  to  us  who  know.  In  five  centuries,  no 
bride  of  the  House  has  knelt  at  the  altar  without 
this  jewel  at  her  throat.  No  chief  of  the  blood  has 


Triumph  353 

gone  to  battle  without  this  chain  beneath  his  mail. 
Alas  for  him,  your  father,  their  spell  availed  not. 
Yet   wear  them  always,   for  your  pure  life   may 
bring  again  their  ancient  charm. 

"  Bien  !  At  last  he  fell,  that  great  Napoleon;  and 
the  Sieur  Lucien  came  back,  to  gather  up  the 
shreds  of  his  torn  life.  But  he  loved  not  the  rule 
of  Louis  the  Drone;  he  went  down  into  Spain,  and 
buried  himself  there,  student,  with  his  furnace,  his 
crucibles,  for  years.  Meanwhile,  I  fought  out  my 
own  life,  in  Paris  and  in  Corsica.  And  mine  was  no 
tournament  of  roses,  my  little  one. 

"He  was  growing  old,  the  Sieur  Lucien.  His 
hair  was  silvered;  his  mouth  was  bitter.  He  was 
eight  and  forty  years  old  when  he  passed  the  Convent 
of  Our  Lady  one  morning  of  April,  and  noticed  a 
young  girl,  the  last  of  the  line  of  demoiselles,  who 
started  forth  upon  their  daily  promenade  under  the 
guidance  of  the  Sisters.  She  was  a  half -blown  slip 
of  fifteen,  thin  and  pale,  with  the  black  eyes,  and 
yellow  hair,  in  thick  braids  to  her  knees ;  she  looked 
up,  frightened,  and  he  saw  her  clearly.  He  went 
back  to  his  house  a  young  man,  straight  and  strong 
and  glorious. 

"  In  four  weeks  more,  they  were  wed.  He  fled 
with  her  to  France,  but  even  there  her  kinsmen 
pursued  them.  They  were  a  house  rich  and  mighty, 
the  intimes  of  King  Ferdinand.  At  their  demand, 
heavy  penance  was  put  upon  the  Holy  Sisters,  for 
their  sin  of  negligence,  that  the  Countess  Diane 


354  Diane 

had  escaped.  The  King  Louis  Philippe  himself 
deigned  to  command  the  Sieur  Lucien  that  his  wife 
should  be  yielded  to  her  people.  The  Sieur  Lucien 
but  laughed.  The  Countess?  To  look  at  her  face 
was  to  watch  the  sea  at  dawn. 

"  It  was  one  year  afterwards  that  a  message  came 
for  me,  to  meet  the  Sieur  at  Dijon.  He  was  an  old 
man  again,  gray  and  bent.  He  sat  with  you,  tiny 
puppet,  in  his  arms,  and  I  knelt  and  laid  my  hands 
beneath  your  own,  and  swore  unto  you  my  fealty 
eternal.  The  Countess  slept.  Before  you  had 
learned  to  lisp  my  name,  the  Sieur  had  followed 
her. 

"  Ah,  my  beloved !  You  and  the  Commune  have 
been  my  children.  You  have  been  the  daughter  of 
my  heart,  but  it  has  been  my  son.  I  have  failed,  I 
have  failed.  But  the  Commune  shall  live  again!" 
He  rose  up,  flushing,  enraptured.  The  joy  of  the 
seer  triumphant  flamed  in  his  sunken  eyes.  "Go 
you  to  rest,  dear  one,  and  leave  me  to  my  work. 
I  see  my  faults,  I  know  now  how  I  may  undo  them. 
Sleep,  dear  child.  You  shall  waken  to  see  me 
win  at  last.  Once  more  I  build  my  Commune.  This 
time,  it  shall  conquer!" 

Wrung  with  foreboding,  Diane  crept  to  her 
attic  corner,  and  sank  into  heavy  sleep.  She 
awoke  in  the  dusk  of  a  stormy  dawn,  roused 
by  strange  noises  below;  a  shuffle  of  halting 
feet  on  the  bare  staircase ;  the  murmur  of  hushed 
voices. 


Triumph  355 

She  felt  her  way  down  the  twisting  stairs,  dazed 
and  shivering.  The  emigrants  stood  huddled  on 
the  landing  outside  Pere  Cabet's  door.  They 
turned  to  her  instinctively,  dumb  as  frightened 
animals;  their  faces  were  like  faces  of  cardboard 
in  the  leaden  light.  Diane  had  a  curious  sense  of 
having  lived  this  scene  before.  It  was  all  familiar, 
even  to  Th6rese's  gasping  whisper,  the  clutch  of  her 
hard  red  hand. 

"Mademoiselle,  what  can  it  mean?  Always  he 
rises  at  the  hour  of  five  to  work.  Behold,  it  is  now 
seven,  and  I  have  rapped  twice,  yet  he  answers 
not.  What  shall " 

"Open  the  door,  Valentin." 

"  But,  Mademoiselle !  Reflect,  how  angry  he 
becomes  when  we  disturb  him!  Never  yet  have  I 
dared " 

"Open  the  door." 

The  crowd  swayed  back  staring  wildly  from  one 
to  another.  Terror  breathed  upon  the  pulseless 
air. 

Diane  gripped  the  heavy  knob.  For  the  moment, 
the  catch  resisted;  then  the  door  swung  slowly 
inward.  An  icy  air  swept  out  to  them;  dawn  and 
candle-light  contended  in  the  great  shadowy  room. 

Pere  Cabet  sat  leaning  forward  on  his  desk,  his 
quill  still  shut  in  his  hand,  the  precious  document 
outspread.  His  eyes  were  closed;  yet  the  smile  of 
the  prophet  transfigured  lit  his  gray,  sleeping  face. 

"Ah,  he  has  worked  all  night !"  cried  Diane,  dis- 


356  Diane 

tressed.  "Waken,  mon  pere,  mon  ami!  Do  you 
not  hear?" 

She  bent  to  kiss  him:  strong  hands  snatched  her 
back.  She  turned  upon  Therese  in  proud  anger; 
her  reproof  died  upon  her  lips. 

The  emigrants  were  sinking  to  their  knees  in  the 
doorway.  Two  women  lay  prone,  their  faces  hidden 
in  their  hands. 

"Come  away,  heart's  own."  With  arms  strong 
and  tender,  Th6rese  caught  the  girl  to  her  own 
sobbing  breast.  "He  will  not  listen,  petite.  He 
will  not  hear,  even  your  beloved  voice.  Come 
away." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  HOUSE  OF  PEACE 

SAINT  MARTIN'S  summer  veiled  the  hills  in 
gossamer  haze,  blue  as  the  smoke  of  Indian  camp- 
fires,  fading,  far.  Sister  Bernardine's  roses  clung 
brown  and  withered  to  their  trellis ;  but  the  trumpet  - 
creeper  still  rang  its  fiery  challenge  along  the  wall, 
while  lilacs  and  snowball,  bewitched  by  the  coaxing 
sunlight,  blossomed  again,  a  faint,  sweet  echo  of 
Spring.  Whereat  Sister  Bernadine  scowled  like  an 
aggrieved  chipmunk,  and  ceased  her  pruning  to 
frown  and  shake  her  shears  at  them  reproachfully. 

"They  are  nossing  but  enfants,  ces  fleurs-la, 
imbeciles!"  she  scolded,  as  she  snipped  the  tallest 
lavender  plume  from  its  stem.  'Voila,  it  grows 
warm,  the  sun  shines,  therefore  April  returns,' 
they  say.  'Let  us  go  forth  and  rejoice/  After 
w'ich — pouf !  M.  le  Frost  seizes  them  and  wrings 
them  down,  comme  cela.  Observe,  Mamzelle,  it 
is  most  rash  to  make  one's  spring  before  the  last 
leaf  falls,  is  it  not  so?" 

The  bunch  of  keys  bounced  from  her  girdle  with 
the  vehemence  of  her  platitude.  Diane  stooped  to 
pick  it  up. 

"A  la  bonne  heure,  my  little  one,  how  thin  you 
357 


35 8  Diane 

grow !  And  how  tall !  Is  it  the  black  gown,  tell  me, 
or  is  it  that  I  myself  am  become  so  short  and  so  fat  ? 
Regard ,  I  cannot  reach  beyond  your  shoulder  !  Is  it 
that  I  measure  myself  beside  a  young  tree?  But 
how  white  you  are,  like  my  wax-berries!  This 
goes  not,  Mamzelle.  We  must  paint  these  cheeks, 
if  they  will  not  bloom." 

Diane  towered  head  and  shoulders  above  the 
dumpy  little  Sister.  Through  these  weeks  of  grief 
and  pain  she  had  grown  as  the  hyacinth  lifts  its 
blossom  stalk,  in  darkness  and  in  cold.  The  black 
dress  clung  about  her  like  a  sheath.  Her  hands  and 
face  were  blanched  to  ivory. 

"A-h-h,  fi!"  Sister  Bernardine  knelt  to  slide  a 
cunning  hand  over  the  sash  of  a  cold-frame.  "  Behol' 
how  this  Toni  Devreux  has  cheated  me,  monster 
of  ingratitude  that  he  is.  I,  who  have  nursed  his 
sick  wife,  I  who  have  interceded  for  him  these 
twenty  times  before  the  Superior!  Thus  does  he 
repay  me  with  cracks !  cr-racks !  with  chasms  so 
enormes  that  I  may  insert  the  thumb  and  the 
finger,  and  pull  up  my  violets  by  the  roots,  if  I  so 
desire.  And  if  I  may  do  this,  what  may  not  M.  le 
Frost  do?  Behol'  him,  loitering  yonder,  the  mis 
creant  !  Come  hither,  Toni,  thou  soul  unsaved,  and 
blush  before  thy  work.  Le  voila!" 

Diane  turned  away  from  the  pell-mell  dispute  that 
ensued,  and  sat  down  on  the  portico  steps  to  rest. 
She  was  easily  tired,  these  days.  Moreover,  the 
mere  sight  of  this  faded,  sun-warmed  garden  was  a 


The  House  of  Peace  359 

pleasure.  Familiar  sounds,  cheerfully  discordant, 
floated  down  to  her  from  the  high,  open  windows. 
On  the  floor  above,  the  younger  pupils,  grave  little 
demoiselles  in  frilled  pantalets  and  taut  pigtails, 
their  plump  legs  cased  with  undeviating  likeness  in 
white  stockings  and  flat  morocco  sandals,  chanted 
their  Hymne  du  Matin  in  rhythmic  chirp,  like  a 
chorus  of  industrious  robins.  A  nun's  voice  rose 
in  gentle  question  from  a  neighbouring  class 
room.  Above  her  head  the  convent  doves  strutted 
and  quavered  and  cooed,  blown  warriors  in  mail 
of  bronze  and  irised  steel.  The  whine  of  a  violin, 
tormented  by  patient  awkward  fingers,  came  to  her 
ears,  mercifully  dulled  by  distance;  now  and  then 
the  twang  of  a  harpstring  pierced  arrowy  through 
the  mesh  of  sound. 

Diane  leaned  her  cheek  against  the  cool  stone 
balustrade.  Her  eyelids  drooped  in  happy  ac 
quiescence.  It  was  good  to  dream  again.  When 
she  closed  her  eyes  to  the  staring  new  buildings 
and  the  broad  yellow  river  beyond,  it  was  as  though 
she  walked  once  again  in  her  own  dear  home,  that 
ancient  fortress-convent.  The  children's  voices, 
singing  the  songs  of  her  babyhood,  declared  it; 
the  pigeons'  coo  betrayed  it.  The  smell  of  heaped 
withering  leaves,  the  pungent  whiff  of  mint  and  rue 
and  pennyroyal  from  the  herb  borders  swore  to  it, 
by  the  very  breath  of  home.  Surely  it  was  good 
to  dream  again.  And  yet 

And  yet  it  was  not  quite  the  Convent  of  her  child- 


360  Diane 

hood.  She  was  content  here,  assuredly.  How 
could  she  be  anything  else  ?  Since  that  gray  terrible 
morning,  that  day  which  she  dared  not  remember, 
when  the  Sisters  had  come  and  carried  her  away 
with  them,  she  had  not  known  a  lonely  hour.  They 
had  nursed  her  and  petted  her  as  one  of  their  own. 
It  was  as  though  she  had  known  them  always.  In 
these  short  weeks,  she  had  learned  to  love  them 
dearly,  every  one,  from  the  grave  Mother  to  Sister 
Nicolini,  the  plump  *  portress,  curled  up  at  her 
knitting  in  the  doorway.  About  them  clung  the 
sweet  familiar  ways  of  Sister  Margarethe  and  Sister 
Ursula,  tender  mothers  of  her  baby  days.  Their 
smiles,  their  touch,  spoke  comfort.  Certainly, 
it  was  most  peevish  of  her  to  own  to  this  restlessness 
which  grew  with  each  new  day,  this  charing  re 
straint,  this  rasp  of  indecision. 

Probably  she  had  not  enough  to  do.  In  the  home 
convent,  one's  days  had  been  busy — so  busy ! 
One.  must  attend  not  only  to  lessons  and  music 
and  stitchery.  One  was  forever  speeding  to  under 
take  some  new  delightful  task.  Perhaps  it  was 
an  altar-cloth,  to  be  wrought  in  lilies  and  passion 
flowers,  the  gift  of  the  demoiselles  to  some  struggling 
congregation.  Or  it  might  be  that  Sister  Hyacinthe 
had  been  prevailed  upon  to  teach  an  eager  group 
how  to  concoct  some  marvellous  custard,  some 
ravishing  glac6.  Else  Sister  Aloysia  called  them 
fluttering  into  the  sewing-room,  to  spend  a  valorous 
and  martyred  hour  in  mending  their  outgrown 


The  House  of  Peace  361 

garments  to  send  to  the  parish  poor.  Life  was  full, 
life  was  enthralling;  one  could  never  be  spared. 
And  now? 

She  glanced  at  the  pruning-basket  at  her  feet. 
Her  mouth  curled  in  questioning  scorn.  What 
availed  it  that  she  should  trot  at  Sister  Bernardine's 
heels  the  livelong  morning,  on  a  task  which  an 
intelligent  puppy  could  have  performed  with  credit  ? 
Was  this  the  furthest  service  that  she,  Diane,  could 
give  ? 

Yesterday  she  had  spent  the  day  painting  forget- 
me-nots  on  tiny  vellum  hearts,  to  be  bestowed  on 
certain  among  the  younger  pupils  as  rewards  of 
merit.  It  was  close,  tedious  work;  somehow,  when 
she  thought  of  Lucy  Baggott,  a  meek  and  absent- 
minded  child,  who  had  eaten  the  edges  off  her  blue- 
and-silver  Merit  before  the  Sister  had  finished  the 
presentation,  and  of  Mamie  Morgan — rewarded  for 
staying  always  awake  at  prayers — who  had  slid 
her  chill  and  slippery  card  down  the  back  of  the 
small  pigtail  in  front  of  her,  to  the  black  disgrace  of 
the  victim,  her  golden  day  seemed  lost.  However, 
one  must  not  quarrel  with  an  obvious  duty.  The 
holy  Sisters  could  not  take  the  time  for  little  blue 
hearts  or  pruning.  And  yet 

"Ah,  bah,  ingrate!"  She  sprang  up  and  ran  to 
the  Mother's  cell.  She  must  find  work  to  do,  she 
told  herself  fiercely.  That  a  Lahautiere  should 
deign  to  sit  empty-handed — to  repine  ! 

The  Mother  met  her  in  the  doorway.     Her  grave 


362  Diane 

eyes  smiled  down  at  Diane's  obeisance;  she  laid 
her  strong  hands  on  the  girl's  shoulders,  and  led  her 
into  the  little  room. 

"What  is  it,  daughter?     What  perplexes  you?" 

A  tell-tale  pink  burnt  Diane's  cheeks.  "It  is 
nothing,  Reverend  Mother.  Only — I  would  wish 
to  be  of  service.  I  am  but  a  burden." 

"You  are  not  strong  enough  to  carry  burdens  yet. 
Be  patient.  Your  tasks  will  soon  be  assigned. 
For  the  meanwhile,  wait." 

"But,  Mother" — Diane  hesitated;  it  was  a 
momentous  question — "I  am  strong  enough  now 
to  plan  what  I  am  to  do.  I  cannot  stay  here, 
dependent  upon  your  bounty.  What  do  you  ad 
vise  that  I  shall  undertake?  I  can  teach  the 
French  and  the  Italian ;  there  must  be  many  in  this 
great  city  who  will  wish  to  learn.  Also  I  can  em 
broider,  and  I  can  give  lessons  upon  the  harp. 
Is  it  not  best  that  I  go  forth  into  the  city  to-morrow, 
and  search  out  those  who  would  wish  to  be  my 
pupils?  Surely  it  is  time  that  I  bestir  myself." 

The  Mother  sat  down,  folding  her  hands.  Her 
face,  aged  and  deeply  wrinkled,  gleamed  with  the 
ineffable  purity  won  through  years  of  self- 
abnegation.  Her  lips  were  sweet  with  prayer;  her 
eyes  caressed.  Yet  she  spoke  now  not  as  the 
loving  Mother,  but  as  the  judge,  calm,  authoritative. 
Diane  listened,  awed. 

"  Daughter,  it  is  indeed  time  that  we  talked  with 
frankness  of  this  matter.  I  would  not  grieve  you 


The  House  of  Peace  363 

for  the  world.  But  I  must  tell  you  that  you  could 
not  support  yourself  in  the  way  that  you  suggest. 
There  are  few  who  would  care  for  such  lessons  as 
you  could  give.  The  embroidery  and  the  sewing 
would  be  little  better.  You  have  not  strength 
for  that  confining  work.  The  world  is  not  the 
home  for  you,  my  little  girl.  It  is  a  selfish,  cruel 
place.  You  have  always  been  shielded.  You  can 
not  know." 

Diane  wondered.  Had  she  not  seen  the  world 
through  this  long  year  at  the  Commune?  And 
had  not  its  people  cherished  her  and  cared  for  her, 
always?  The  Pere  Cabet — M'sieu  1'Ami — Made 
moiselle  Rose 

"  Therefore,  you  must  remain  with  us,  my  daughter 
until  we  can  make  certain  plans  for  you."  Her 
swift  glance  read  Diane's  perplexity  like  a  printed 
page.  "You  are  not  tired  of  us,  my  daughter? 
You  would  not  wish  to  go?" 

The  tone  went  straight  to  Diane's  heart.  She 
sprang  up  and  threw  herself  on  her  knees  by  the 
Mother,  hiding  her  face  in  the  folds  of  the  coarse 
serge  habit.  The  Mother  smiled;  her  hands  slid 
with  hungry  tenderness  over  the  bright  head  upon 
her  knee. 

"  I  would  not  leave  you,  Mother,  but  I  cannot  be 
happy  while  others  labour  for  me.  And  I  have 
no  right  to  remain  here — none.  If  I  were  a  novice, 
it  would  be  different.  But  I  am  only  an  interloper. 
It  is  not  just." 


364  Diane 

A  faint  flush  mounted  to  the  Mother's  withered 
cheek.  Her  lips  tightened;  a  new  light  kindled  in 
her  brooding  eyes.  She  spoke  deliberately,  picking 
her  words.  Her  voice  rang  with  the  tense  note  of 
one  who  forces  a  crisis. 

"Diane,  child,  I  have  often  wondered,  did  the 
Sisters  at  Orsay  ever  talk  to  you  of  the  history  of 
our  Order?" 

"  Often,  Mother.  It  was  most  interesting.  When 
I  was  an  infant,  I  have  always  thought,  'When 
I  am  of  the  age  of  decision,  I,  too,  shall  become  a 
religieuse;  I,  too,  shall  nurse  the  sick,  and  teach 
the  little  ones.'  Always  it  was  my  hope." 

The  Mother's  hands  trembled. 

"One  has  many  dreams  in  youth,"  she  responded, 
evenly.  "Sometimes  the  old  themselves  dare  to 
hope,  too.  Since  you  came  to  us" — she  caught 
her  breath  at  Diane's  upward  glancing  question, 
then  went  steadily  on — "Since  you  came  to  us,  I 
have  thought  to  myself,  'Here  is  a  soul  worthy  of 
the  noblest  work  that  a  woman  can  do.  She  has 
tact  with  the  little  ones;  I  have  watched  her  share 
their  play.  She  has  sympathy  with  the  aged.  I 
have  seen  her  put  aside  her  own  plans  to  cheer 
them.  She  loves  to  care  for  the  sick;  she  is  willing 
to  give  of  her  best  to  all  that  may  need.  Why 
should  she  not  give  herself  to  the  Great  Work? 
Why  should  she  not  confess  herself,  and  live  in 
truth  the  Sister  which  she  is  already  in  thought?'" 

Diane    pondered,    wide-eyed. 


The  House  of  Peace  365 

' '  Consider  it ,  my  daughter. ' '  The  Mother  stooped 
and  pressed  her  lips  to  the  fair  forehead.  "  Remem 
ber,  it  must  be  your  free  choice.  I  would  not  force 
you  to  walk  in  this  blessed  path.  It  is  only  that  I 
long  to  see  you  safe  and  happy.  I  would  not  see  you 
renounce  the  world,  if  you  feel  that  your  appointed 
task  lies  beyond  these  walls.  But  I  would  have  you 
judge,  and  judge  with  thought  and  with  prayer.  I 
must  go  now,  my  little  girl.  Peace  be  with  you." 

Diane  sat  in  the  narrow  window.  Outside,  the 
little  demoiselles,  released  for  the  hour,  ran  and 
shouted  through  the  sunny  garden.  The  doves 
hurtled  past,  a  silvery  flight,  to  perch  around 
Sister  Catherine,  with  her  pan  of  meal.  Shy 
whispers  and  laughter  rose  from  the  bench  beneath 
her  window,  where  two  girlish  Sisters  sat  gossiping, 
hand  in  hand.  Ah,  it  was  all  most  dear  and  lovely. 
The  peace  of  it  all  allured  her.  Its  renunciations 
seemed  trivial;  its  labours  were  a  privilege.  The 
thought  of  tranquil  years  in  this  calm  haven,  spent 
in  the  care  of  the  sick  to  whom  she  delighted  to 
minister,  with  the  children  that  she  adored,  urged 
her  like  a  beloved  voice.  Was  it  not  best  ?  Was  it 
not  easy  to  decide  ?  And  yet 

The  Convent  garden  faded  from  her  sight.  She 
looked  upon  the  river  instead,  ablaze  beneath  the 
western  sky,  a  flood  of  shattered  pearl.  The  light 
lay  in  silvery  flakes  on  each  curl  of  the  dimpled 
water;  Channing  had  leaned  forward  to  brush  away 
the  wild  crab -apple  petals  caught  in  the  lace  of  her 


366  Diane 

purple  flounces.  What  was  it  that  he  had  said? 
That  the  petals  lay  as  the  light  lay,  in  showered 
bloom?  The  words  had  slipped  the  leash  of  mem 
ory;  but  his  look  remained,  clear  as  his  bodily  self 
before  her  eyes.  She  could  see  the  flash  in  the  blue 
eyes  bent  upon  her ;  her  heart  leaped  at  the  thrill  of 
his  low,  reverent  voice. 

She  slid  to  her  knees  by  the  Mother's  chair. 
Ah,  the  peace,  the  calm  which  this  life  would  give ! 
Surely  she  was  unworthy  of  this  high  calling;  but 
years  and  prayers  would  bring  guidance,  and  each 
day's  duties  would  help  to  fit  her  for  the  days  to 
come.  Her  face  sank  in  her  folded  arms.  It  was 
best,  it  must  be  best.  Why  could  she  not  decide? 
The  Mother  approved  it.  And  what  else  remained 
for  her  to  do?  It  was  best,  it  must  be  best.  Why 
could  she  not  cast  out  these  sickening  doubts,  and 
make  her  peaceful  choice? 

Sister  Nicolini  awoke  and  rubbed  her  eyes  at 
the  third  rap  upon  the  half-open  door.  It  was  a 
most  unseemly  hour  for  visitors  at  the  Convent,  she 
grumbled,  as  she  bade  the  stranger  enter.  More 
over,  this  was  a  most  unseemly  guest.  Young 
men  were  never  welcome  visitants ;  at  this,  the  hour 
of  recreation,  when  the  demoiselles  were  all  fluttering 
about  the  lawn,  it  was  a  thing  inexcusable.  He 
would  see  the  Reverend  Mother?  Ah,  b'en,  she 
would  ascertain.  The  Reverend  Mother  was  not 
always  willing  to  grant  an  interview  to  guests 
unbidden. 


The  House  of  Peace  367 

The  stranger  was  deaf  to  her  petulance.  This 
was  the  more  exasperating.  Animal  that  he  was, 
he  did  not  even  perceive  how  his  spurs  were  marring 
the  dark  polished  floor.  His  buckskin  riding- 
clothes  were  torn  and  stained ;  his  boots  were  caked 
with  clay  to  the  knee.  Under  the  tan  of  the  prairie 
sun,  his  face  showed  a  sleepless  pallor;  the  hand 
which  signed  the  card  she  brought  was  stiff  and 
tremulous. 

Sister  Nicolini  shot  a  swift  glance  through  the 
window  as  she  passed.  The  stranger's  horse,  a 
beautiful  sorrel,  stood  head  down,  exhausted,  at 
the  gate.  Even  at  that  distance,  she  could  see  that 
its  heaving  flanks  were  dabbled  with  yellow  mud. 
Monsieur  had  ridden  up  from  St.  Louis  then,  it 
was  evident.  It  had  been  a  hard  trip,  and  a  hurried 
one.  This  was  interesting.  She  fumbled  the  card 
in  her  bent,  old  fingers,  and  tried  in  vain  to  make 
out  the  sprawling  signature. 

Alas,  the  demoiselles  found  it  interesting,  too. 
The  sight  of  a  strange  visitor  had  broken  in  upon 
their  innocent  games  like  the  fall  of  a  meteor. 
White  legs  twinkling,  long  braids  streaming,  they 
swarmed  to  the  Convent  steps  in  a  panic  of  curiosity. 
Virtuous  anger  swelled  Sister  Nicolini's  breast.  How 
lamentable  that  her  office  gave  her  no  right  to  rebuke 
them!  "Silly  goslings!"  she  sputtered,  flourishing 
her  habit  at  them  as  she  crossed  the  hall  again. 

"The  Reverend  Mother  is  engaged  at  her  medita 
tions.  She  can  see  no  one," 


368  Diane 

The  stranger  met  her  rebuff  of  voice  and  manner 
with  courteous  unconcern.  "  Then  I  will  ask  you  to 
call  the  lady  whom  I  came  especially  to  see, 
Mademoiselle  de  Lahautiere.  Tell  her  that  I  shall 
not  trespass  long  upon  her  time." 

Astonished  at  her  own  acquiescence,  Sister  Nico- 
lini  hobbled  away. 

"A  strange  man  to  see  you,  Mamzelle,"  she 
whispered  shrilly,  in  Diane's  ear.  "His  name — ah, 
ne*gligente  that  I  am,  I  have  dropped  the  card  in 
the  chapel,  when  I  went  to  seek  the  Reverend 
Mother.  But  it  matters  not.  A  most  ordinary 
person,  in  the  suit  of  leather,  all  daubed  with  mud, 
and  the  high  boots.  But  do  not  talk  with  him 
long,  Mamzelle.  It  is  not  advised." 

Diane  went  listlessly  down  the  corridor.  It 
would  be  Trente,  or  else  Valentin  Saugier,  come  to 
discuss  with  her  the  plans  for  the  new  Commune, 
which  they  were  planning  to  build  at  Cheltenham. 
They  had  written  to  her  of  their  schemes;  they 
had  begged  for  her  co-operation,  on  the  ground 
that  she,  knowing  Pe"re  Cabet's  views,  could  help 
greatly  in  carrying  them  out.  Thus  far  she  had 
not  replied  to  their  letter.  A  sinking  dread  op 
pressed  her  at  the  thought.  How  dared  she  urge 
the  continuation  of  a  plan  which  her  unwilling 
reason  knew  could  end  only  in  disaster?  Yet  how 
could  she  question  his  darling  hopes,  and  so  turn 
traitor  to  her  dearer  father,  the  Pere  Cabet  ? 

So  she  entered  the  room,  pale,  troubled,  absent. 


The  House  of  Peace  369 

And  for  the  moment  the  two  stared  at  each  other, 
all  unknowing. 

Channing  caught  his  breath.  Could  this  wan, 
drooping  shape,  shrouded  in  black  from  throat  to 
feet,  be  the  blossom-child  that  he  had  left  behind? 
Awe  and  pity  swept  his  heart.  What  mournful 
truths  those  shadowed  eyes  had  read !  What 
bitter  lessons  those  drawn  lips  could  repeat ! 

"Diane!" 

Aghast,  the  girl  drew  back,  wide-eyed  and 
trembling.  He  had  seen  the  changes  in  her  look; 
he  had  not  reckoned  upon  the  shock  for  her  of  his 
own  altered  face.  This  was  not  her  cherished 
enemy,  the  prince  of  her  shy  dreams;  this  lank 
rider,  tanned,  unshaven,  weary,  whose  eyes  burned 
as  they  rested  upon  her,  whose  grasp  shut  as  steel 
on  her  cold  wrist.  She  looked  up  at  him,  piteously 
questioning.  But  the  repulse  of  her  first  shrinking 
movement  had  daunted  him  beyond  reassurance. 
Hope  faded  from  his  eyes.  He  dropped  her  hand, 
and  stumbled  through  broken  explanation. 

"I  had  a  letter  from  Rose,  a  fortnight  ago.  It 
had  been  six  weeks  on  the  way.  It  told  me  of  the 
troubles — of  what  has  happened  in  the  Commune. 
I  sent  a  reply  to  her  by  a  carrier,  asking  where  I 
would  find  you  in  St.  Louis,  and  I  found  the  answer 
waiting  for  me  when  I  reached  the  city  yesterday. 
There  was  no  steamer  up  the  river  till  to-morrow, 
so  I  rode  up,  without  waiting  for — for  your  per 
mission.  I  could  not  wait.  Diane,  why  are  you 


37°  Diane 

here?  Where  is  Pere  Cabet?  Why  does  he  not 
care  for  you?" 

She  answered  him  with  a  look  utterly  forlorn. 

"He  has  sent  you  here  till  the  new  Commune  is 
well  under  way?  Or  has  he  left  you  as  he  did 
before,  while  he  goes  to  make  his  experiments  else 
where?" 

The  scorn  in  his  voice  cut  her  like  a  lash.  She 
passed  a  trembling  hand  over  the  folds  of  her  black 
gown. 

"Oh,  Diane !"  The  truth  smote  down  upon  him 
in  sickening  light.  "I  did  not  think — I  had  not 
heard.  Forgive  me,  dear,  can't  you?  Listen  to 
me,  Diane.  I  must  speak  with  you.  I  have  come 
to  ask — to  beg  you " 

"M'sieu  is  forgiven."  Diane  groped  her  way  to 
the  door.  The  words  came  thick  through  her  ashen 
lips.  "  It  avails  nothing  that  we  talk  of  these  things. 
M'sieu  is  kind  in  that  he  has  shown  interest.  There 
remains  nothing  further  that  he  can  do." 

Channing  stepped  in  front  of  her  and  closed  the 
door. 

"  M'sieu  will  add  to  his  kindness  by  permitting  me 
to  depart." 

"Listen,  Diane."  He  put  her  gently  back  into 
a  chair.  His  lips  went  white  as  her  own.  "You 
must  give  me  a  hearing.  I  have  cared  for  you 
since  that  first  day,  the  morning  you  came  to  the 
Commune.  Do  you  remember?  I  put  you  into 
my  boat,  and  I  was  clumsy,  and  it  annoyed  you — 


The  House  of  Peace  371 

and  I  have  always  annoyed  you.  And  I  have  always 
loved  you." 

Diane  listened,  pulseless,  silent. 

11 1  hurt  you  that  day — that  hideous  Sunday, 
when  the  Commune  broke  up.  You  despised  me 
then.  I  couldn't  blame  you.  I  was  trying  to  help, 
and  I  just  made  things  worse.  But — if  you'll  let 
me  try  again,  Diane  !  If  you'll  give  me  the  right  to 
care,  the  right  to  atone " 

Diane  quivered  beneath  the  supplication  in  his 
face.  But  stronger  in  death  than  in  life,  the  ghost 
of  the  Commune  arose  between  them,  relentless, 
inexorable. 

"M'sieu,  as  you  say,  you  wounded  me  then. 
Let  it  be  forgotten.  You  tried  to  turn  me  against 
the  Pere  Cabet,  he  who  has  shielded  me  through 
my  whole  life.  Let  that  be  forgotten,  also.  And 
let  me  go." 

"No."  Despairing  passion  rang  in  his  pleading 
voice.  "Diane,  you  shall  listen.  I've  waited  for 
you  all  my  life.  I've  dreamed  always  of  the  woman 
that  you  would  be.  You're  all — everything.  Diane, 
are  you  going  to  send  me  away  with  only  the  mem 
ory  of  your  anger?  Won't  you  tell  me,  at  least, 
what  you  are  planning  to  do?  Can't  you  trust 
me  with  some  service  for  you?" 

"I  need  nothing.  The  Sisters  care  for  me  now. 
They  will  arrange  my  life  for  the  future." 

"  No  !  Not  that,  Diane  !  Promise  me,  not  that ! " 
The  agony  in  his  cry  caught  at  her  heart.  She 


37 2  Diane 

faltered,  groping  for  her  reply.  When  the  words 
came,  their  lifeless  tones  gave  forth  no  quiver  of  the 
tumult  raging  within. 

"It  would  be  best.  The  Mother  wishes  it.  I 
have  been  with  the  Sisters  all  my  life;  I  know  well 
what  the  black  veil  means.  It  is  not  the  misery 
you  imagine,  M'sieu.  It  is  a  life  quiet  and  serene. 
Perhaps  it  has  no  great  joys.  Surely  it  has  no 
bitter  sorrows.  The  blessed  Sisters  are  never 
unhappy.'* 

"Diane,  could  you  try  to  find  happiness  with 
me?  Will  you — dearest?" 

Her  heart  yielded  within  her.  Yet  the  wraith 
of  her  haunting  grief  arose  and  hushed  the  con 
fession  on  her  lips. 

"I  beg  of  you  to  go,  M'sieu."  She  fumbled  at 
the  knob,  blind  in  her  tears;  but  Channing,  stupefied 
before  his  own  anguish,  had  no  eyes  to  see.  "  Return 
to  your  work,  to  the  friends  who  await  you.  Do 
not  think  of  me  again.  Adieu." 

"Diane!" 

She  brushed  past  his  pleading  hands;  it  was  as 
though  he  touched  a  woman  of  snow.  He  followed 
her  into  the  corridor,  but  she  fled  before  him  to  the 
tiny  chapel.  He  would  have  entered,  unknowing, 
but  the  carved  door  shut  heavily  behind  her.  It 
was  as  though  she  fled  into  the  heart  of  the  mystic 
Convent  life. 

The  little  demoiselles  scuttled  away  like  partridges 
as  he  came  down  the  stairs.  They  watched  him 


The  House  of  Peace  373 

shyly  from  ambush  of  shrub  and  trellis,  and  sighed 
for  the  unread  romance  as  he  rode  away. 

At  dusk,  the  Mother  mounted  to  Diane's  room, 
and  entered,  with  noiseless  step.  The  girl  knelt 
at  her  open  window,  frail  silhouette  against  the 
folding  gloom.  Her  rosary  lay  on  the  sill;  she 
leaned  her  cheek  on  both  clasped  hands,  locked  as 
though  they  hid  something  infinitely  precious. 

The  elder  woman  stooped  and  passed  her  hands 
beneath  the  girl's  chin.  She  kissed  the  half-shut 
lids,  the  pure,  cold  cheek. 

"You  have  need  of  me,  my  daughter?" 

Diane  rose  unsteadily  and  made  her  salute. 
She  did  not  unclasp  her  hands.  "  I  do  have  need  of 
you,  Reverend  Mother.  Truly,  I  think  that  I  do 
always  need  you." 

The  Mother  caught  the  sigh  in  the  low  tranquil 
words.  She  passed  her  arm  about  the  girl ;  together 
they  stood  looking  out  upon  the  sweet  shadowy 
garden.  The  demoiselles  pelted  hither  and  thither 
in  the  warm  twilight,  absorbed  in  a  last  joyful 
game;  their  birdlike  cries  rose  sweet  and  shrill. 
Like  dark  glancing  moths,  half-seen,  the  Sisters 
flitted  through  the  dusky  paths.  Long  scarfs  of 
mist  trailed  down  the  valley,  dim  incense  before  the 
dying  altar  flame  of  the  west.  A  steamer  bell 
tolled  deep  and  clear,  melodious  as  a  far  cathedral 
chime;  the  river  echo  answered  it,  a  long,  faint 
dreaming  peal. 

The  woman  secluded  comes  to  possess,  as  a  sixth 


374  Diane 

sense,  that  second  sight,  discerning  sympathy. 
So,  not  knowing  of  the  scene  of  the  morning,  the 
Mother  divined  her  unrest,  yet  did  not  try  to  soothe. 
Life  had  not  always  been  for  her  a  Convent  garden, 
walled  and  rose -wreathed.  Taught  by  her  own 
sorrow,  she  had  learned  the  final  lessons  of  her 
ministry — to  wait ;  to  keep  silence. 

Yet  as  she  looked  at  the  face  against  her  arm,  her 
eyes  spoke  what  her  lips  dared  not  try  to  frame. 

Ah,  those  mother-eyes !  Dark  with  the  vision 
of  all  sorrow;  tender  with  the  sharing  of  all  pain; 
wise  with  the  understanding  that  anguished  Sacrifice 
alone  grants  as  amends.  A  mother,  indeed,  in 
every  line  of  her  pure  face,  in  every  gesture  of  her 
hungry  arms ;  and  yet  a  mother  denied. 

"You  did  not  come  to  vespers,  my  daughter." 
"I  found  myself  very  tired,  Reverend  Mother." 
"The  service  was  beautiful  to-night.  Sister 
Teresa  has  trained  the  younger  girls  till  they  sing 
like  larks,  each  pouring  out  her  little  voice  eagerly, 
without  waiting  for  the  others.  It  was  not  so 
when  they  began  to  learn  the  choruses.  Do  you 
remember  how  rough  their  voices  used  to  be,  and 
how  they  stumbled  through  the  bars  one  after 
another?  It  was  as  though  they  scampered  down 
a  broken  stairway. 

"The  summer  loiters  here,'*  she  went  on,  after  a 
pause.  "Think,  it  is  late  November,  and  the 
honeysuckle  still  flowering !  And  the  spring  hurries 
back,  like  a  frightened  little  school-girl,  who  dreads 


The  House  of  Peace  375 

that  she  may  be  tardy.  Those  peach-trees  yonder 
will  all  be  rosy  by  March.  I  have  picked  violets 
down  in  that  warm  hollow  behind  the  syringa 
hedge  while  the  snow  lay  in  patches  on  the  lawn. 
And  the  bluebirds  come  before  the  first  crocus. 
They  will  be  tapping  at  your  window  for  crumbs 
by  Candlemas  morning." 

The  last  light  faded  from  ember  cloud  and  mist- 
thralled  river.  The  Convent  bells  rang  the  hour 
of  silence;  as  though  hushed  beneath  some  guiltless 
spell,  the  gay  voices  were  stilled.  Led  by  watchful 
nuns,  the  demoiselles  formed  into  two  long  lines, 
and  marched  soberly  to  the  dormitory,  a  glimmering 
file  of  demure  little  ghosts.  Presently  their  voices 
rose  again,  softened  by  distance  to  the  merest 
fantasy  of  sound,  in  that  most  sweet  and  touching 
chant,  the  Hymne  de  la  Vierge. 

"It  is  time  that  you  slept,  my  daughter.  So  I 
must  leave  you.  Will  you  rest  comfortably,  do 
you  think?" 

"Yes,  Mother." 

"You  do  not  wish  me  to  remain  with  you  for  a 
while?  There  is  nothing  I  can  do ?" 

"I  need  nothing,  Mother.  Indeed  I  am  quite 
well.  Good-night." 

The  Superior  kissed  her  lightly  and  turned  to 
go.  Her  face  was  furrowed  in  perplexing  thought. 
A  sigh  of  baffled  tenderness  escaped  her  lips  as  she 
passed  the  door. 

"Mother!" 


376  Diane 

She  turned  back,  eagerly.     "Yes,  my  child?*' 

"  Mother,  is  it  right  to  hold  to  that  which  one  has 
declared,  even  when  one  has  come  to  disbelieve? 
Is  it  that  a  vow  remains  always  a  vow?  Must  one 
live  as  one's  lips  have  promised  to  live,  when  the 
heart  denies  the  promise?" 

The  Superior  drew  back,  dismayed. 

"But  you  have  taken  no  vows,  my  daughter. 
Moreover,  the  Church  will  not  permit  that  you 
assume  these  most  holy  pledges  until  you  are 
willing  to  renounce  all  that  your  heart  holds  dear. 
Surely  you  understand " 

"I  speak  not  of  the  veil."  Diane  came  toward 
her,  her  hands  still  shut  tightly.  "I  mean — but, 
Mother,  it  becomes  late,  and  I  weary  you.  Will  you 
not  kiss  me — and  forget  my  foolish  questions?  I 
am  very  childish  to-night.  Forgive  me." 

The  Superior  caught  her  to  her  heart  in  a  passion 
of  love  and  pity,  uncomprehending,  boundless. 
Diane  lay  silent  beneath  her  kisses  and  her  crooning 
whispers.  Her  lashes  flashed  wet  in  the  candle 
light  when  the  Mother  put  her  down,  at  last;  but 
her  face  was  calm,  and  her  voice  composed  when 
they  whispered  their  last  good-night. 

She  blew  out  her  candle,  and  knelt  again  at  her 
open  window,  now  a  square  of  star-lit  gray  against 
the  darkness  of  the  room.  The  lights  in  the  great 
dormitory  flickered  and  sank;  a  cricket's  cry,  that 
loneliest  of  lonely  sounds  to  the  wandering  heart, 
pierced  upward  through  the  night.  A  fitful  wind 


The  House  of  Peace  377 

tossed  and  fumbled  among  the  dead  leaves  below, 
then  rose  wailing,  as  one  who  sought,  and  seeking 
found  but  Despair. 

Diane's  hands  relaxed;  the  treasures  they  held 
fell  on  the  sill,  beside  the  unheeded  rosary.  Pere 
Cabet's  eyes  smiled  up  at  her  from  the  locket  which 
he  had  tied  about  her  little  neck  in  the  Sisters'  hall 
at  Orsay.  She  pressed  her  lips  to  its  case,  still 
warmed  by  her  loving  clasp;  but  her  hand  kept 
jealous  guard  of  the  bit  of  folded  cardboard  which 
she  had  found,  after  long  search,  on  the  Chapel  floor. 
She  needed  no  light,  to  see  the  face  beloved;  she 
need  not  look  to  read  the  name  beloved  on  the 
crumpled  sheet. 

So  she  knelt  in  the  warm  dusk,  rent  between  this 
dumb,  entreating  love,  this  waiting,  ruthless  duty. 
An  older  woman,  accustomed  to  reason,  would 
have  fought  to  convince  herself  of  the  justice  of  her 
heart's  demands.  She  would  have  panoplied  her 
self  in  the  claims  of  primal  instinct ;  she  would  have 
challenged  obligation  with  destiny.  Diane  lay 
passive  before  her  altar.  She  did  not  know  how 
to  judge.  She  did  not  try  to  pray.  Only  she 
suffered,  such  pangs  and  thorns  as  only  motherless 
girlhood,  faltering,  bewildered,  desolate,  can  know. 

Channing  rode  back  to  St.  Louis,  heart-sick  and 
furious  at  his  utter  failure.  He  had  not  dared  to 
think  that  he  would  be  welcome.  He  had  even 
nerved  himself  to  meet  reproach.  But  he  was 


378  Diane 

not  armed  for  this  baffling  indifference,  this  mood 
of  still  renunciation.  He  had  been  conquered  for 
the  second  time,  he  told  himself  angrily,  by  his 
dread  of  grieving  her.  He  had  smothered  the 
passionate  words  which  had  burned  his  lips  all  his 
long  journey  through.  He  had  curbed  glance  and 
touch;  as  he  recalled  the  scene,  he  could  remember 
nothing  which  could  even  startle  her,  save  the 
unhappy  mention  of  Pere  Cabet.  And  even  this 
most  miserable  slip  could  not  account  for  her  stern 
quiet,  her  face  of  snow.  She  hated  him.  He 
might  as  well  resign  himself  to  that  at  once.  And 
Rose's  letter — no,  surely  Rose  was  not  to  blame. 
Rose  had  seen  what  he  had  seen;  she  had  believed 
what  he  had  dared  to  hope.  It  was  all  a  reckless 
dream  at  best.  She  had  never  cared.  She  could 
not.  He  was  a  fool  to  beat  himself  longer  against 
this  wall  of  certainty. 

If  only  he  had  not  betrayed  his  shock  at  sight 
of  her  pale  face,  her  sombre  habit !  The  pang  of  it 
wrung  him  anew.  He  shuddered  and  clenched  his 
teeth ;  the  nails  bit  deep  into  his  rigid  palms.  Where 
had  he  loitered,  coward  that  he  was,  while  this  slow 
agony  wrote  its  record  upon  her?  That  she  should 
suffer  so !  His  darling !  His  Diane ! 

Ah,  she  must  care !  Such  love  as  his  would 
draw  its  true  requital,  even  from  the  sealed  depths 
of  her  maiden  heart.  He  would  go  back  to  her 
to-morrow.  He  would  take  her  in  his  arms  and 
keep  her  there  and  comfort  her  against  his  heart. 


The  House  of  Peace  379 

His  kisses  should  teach  her  lips  to  yield  their  pitiful 
resolve.  His  tenderness  should  coax  the  shadows 
from  her  dear  eyes  and  warm  her  cheek  to  rose  again. 
From  its  chill  shroud  of  weariness  and  grief,  her 
beauty  should  flush  awake  once  more,  lovely  as 
arbutus  under  snow.  For  she  was  his,  unalterably. 
Even  her  vows,  her  protests,  should  not  avail  to 
save  her  from  his  love. 

He  drowsed  in  the  saddle  through  the  long 
plodding  ride  by  night.  Now  and  then  he  woke  at 
a  breath  of  wind  across  his  face.  It  roused  him, 
keen  and  trembling,  like  a  fancied  caress.  Soft 
as  the  touch  of  her  wind-blown  hair,  it  came; 
sweet  as  the  fall  of  her  shy  hand  in  his. 

At  daybreak  he  stopped  at  a  roadside  tavern. 
Winnie  was  plainly  exhausted ;  and  despite  the  spur  of 
his  excitement,  he  found  himself  giddy  with  fatigue. 
He  dozed  for  an  hour  in  the  dingy  office  before 
ordering  his  breakfast.  Afterwards  he  had  a 
blurred  recollection  of  swift  hands  fumbling  through 
his  pockets:  of  a  sharp  cry  and  the  clatter  of 
retreating  feet  when  he  roused  and  spoke,  too 
numb  with  sleep  to  demand  explanation. 

Winnie  was  not  fit  for  the  trip  back  that  morning, 
so  much  was  certain.  He  petted  her  remorsefully 
for  a  few  moments,  then  strolled  through  the 
stables,  looking  first  at  one,  then  another,  of  the 
horses  which  the  tavern-keeper  offered  to  lend  him 
for  the  day.  Half  a  dozen  men,  guests  of  the 
inn,  and  evidently  a  congenial  party,  lounged  through 


380  Diane 

the  stables,  shouting  and  joking  in  boisterous  fun. 
There  was  something  queerly  familiar,  Channing 
thought,  in  the  faces  of  one  or  two  of  them ;  probably 
it  was  a  baseless  whim,  suggested  by  their  clothing, 
the  typical  garb  of  the  mounted  emigrant  of  the  day. 
Once  or  twice  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  blue  sleeve 
at  the  narrow  window,  a  moment's  sight  of  a  red, 
peering  face.  Probably  they  noticed  his  travel- 
stained  clothing  and  his  characteristic  prairie  tan, 
and  were  innocently  curious.  They  stood  crowded 
in  the  doorway,  still  talking  noisily,  when  he  pushed 
past  them  on  his  way  back  to  the  tavern.  They 
overlooked  him  a  bit  ostentatiously;  he  laughed  at 
his  haunting  instinct  of  caution.  He  had  ridden 
so  long  on  a  road  where  law  was  not,  and  prudence, 
next  to  marksmanship,  was  the  price  of  safety,  that 
his  wary  habit  had  grown  to  be  second  nature. 

He  was  a  little  surprised  to  find  three  of  them 
hanging  about  the  tavern  steps,  when  he  came  out 
to  ride  away.  Their  loud  banter  stopped  when 
he  came  in  sight;  they  looked  at  each  other  oddly 
askance,  shamefaced,  even.  Channing  glanced 
around  him  as  he  crossed  the  gravelled  yard.  His 
shoulders  stiffened ;  his  hand  shut  over  his  revolver. 
He  reached  the  saddle  in  a  flying  leap,  but  his 
pursuers  were  too  quick  for  him.  There  was  an 
oath,  a  shot,  and  a  wild  clatter  of  hoofs  as  the 
terrified  horse  dashed  away  down  the  road. 

Channing  sat  up,  bruised  and  sick.  Blood 
trickled  from  a  slender  cut  over  his  temple ;  sun  and 


The  House  of  Peace  381 

trees  and  tavern  revolved  in  fantastic  confusion 
before  his  eyes.  The  leader  of  the  gang  wrung  the 
revolver  from  his  hand  and  proceeded  to  bandage 
the  cut  on  his  forehead  with  clumsy  care.  The 
other  men  stood  looking  on,  passively  interested. 
One  of  them  stooped  and  brushed  the  mud  from 
Channing's  trousers  with  both  horny  palms.  Chan- 
ning  had  a  weird  sense  of  being  an  onlooker  at  some 
insane  play. 

"Sorry  we  had  to  knock  you  down,  son,"  said 
the  leader,  amiably.  "I  had  my  writ  here  in  my 
pocket,  all  reg'lar,  but  I  saw  you  wasn't  goin'  to 
wait  fer  no  manners,  so  I  called  to  the  boys  to 
pitch  in.  You're  wanted  up  in  Lee  County  on  two 
counts,  an'  both  of  them  stiff  ones,  too.  The  first 
fer  helpin'  run  off  that  wench  Celina,  slave  to  Mr. 
Ashby,  of  Lynchburg,  on  April  loth;  the  second, 
fer  takin'  eight  runaways  across  the  river  in  a  skiff 
on  the  night  of  May  iQth,  an'  helpin'  them  to 
resist  arrest  at  the  same  hour.  Ya'as,  I'm  the 
Lee  County  sheriff.  Thought  maybe  you'd  seen 
me  afore,  didn't  ye?  I  was  smooth-shaved  then; 
I've  growed  all  this  beard  sence,  or  I  don't  believe 
I'd  hev  my  hands  on  ye  now.  No,  Cap'n,  you  don't 
get  yer  gun  back,  not  yet.  You're  too  good  a 
shot,  even  when  ye  do  aim  wild ;  you've  barked  my 
ear,  as  it  is.  Come  along,  now.  The  game's  up." 

The  game  was  up.  And  what  of  Diane?  What 
of  the  half-formed  resolve  which  even  a  day's 
delay  might  crystallise  into  irrevocable  decision? 


382  Diane 

"  I  tell  you,  I  won't  go  ! "  Despairing  rage  blinded 
him  to  the  madness  of  rebellion.  He  jerked  him 
self  free  from  the  sheriff's  grasp,  and  knocked  the 
revolver  to  the  ground.  The  hostler  was  returning 
to  the  stables  with  the  captured  horse.  He 
snatched  the  bridle  from  the  man's  hand  and  sprang 
into  the  saddle  before  the  posse  could  lay  hands 
upon  him.  The  horse  dashed  forward  madly 
beneath  the  spur.  Channing  lay  flat  on  the  heaving 
neck;  the  bullets  purred  past  him  like  sleet  of  fire. 

At  the  turn  of  the  road,  the  horse  stopped  short, 
then  plunged  forward  with  a  scream.  Channing's 
feet  were  out  of  the  stirrups  on  the  instant,  but 
before  he  could  spring,  the  horse  lunged  once  more, 
then  toppled  over  to  one  side.  Horse  and  rider 
rolled  over  and  over  in  the  stone-paved  ditch. 

Channing  struggled  to  free  himself  from  the 
tangling  leathers;  his  limbs  refused  to  move.  The 
world  fell  dark,  flashed  white,  then  faded  to  night 
once  more. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
ROSE 

"WON'T  you  come  out  in  the  skiff  with  me  a 
while,  Miss  Rose?  It's  mild  as  May.  We  won't 
have  many  such  afternoons  in  November." 

"I  don't  believe  I  care  to,  Sydney." 

"Go  on,  daughter.  You  won't  have  many  more 
afternoons  here,  either.  I'm  going  to  pack  you  off 
to  Belhaven  next  week.  You  ought  to  see  the 
way  those  niggers  are  letting  the  place  run  down !" 
The  Major  whirled  about  in  his  chair,  suddenly 
crimson  with  wrathful  recollection.  "I  drove  up 
there  from  Arlington  last  week,  just  before  I  started 
out  here,  without  letting  them  know  I  was  coming. 
I'll  wager  their  ears  ache  yet,  after  what  I  had  to 
say !  Pigs  in  the  orchard,  and  a  chicken-yard  in 
the  south  garden !  I  hadn't  the  heart  to  go  through 
the  house.  Indeed,  no,  my  dear,  you'll  not  stay 
here  till  I  go  back.  Run  along  and  get  all  the 
pleasure  you  can  out  of  your  pet  river.  There's 
precious  little  time  left." 

Rose  picked  up  the  half-written  letter  and  tore 
it  into  tiny  shreds.  "  I  suppose  I  had  better  go  up 
and  see  Madame  Manderson,"  she  said  presently. 
"She's  been  ill  again,  so  Persis  tells  me.  You'd 

383 


384  Diane 

as  soon  take  me  there  as  anywhere,  wouldn't  you, 
Sydney?" 

Palmer  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  her  unflattering 
acquiescence.  "Just  as  you  wish,  surely.  I'm 
yours  to  command.  Probably  we'll  meet  up  with 
that  pert  little  sparrow,  Petit  Clef,  and  get  our 
fortunes  told.  The  last  time  I  went  up  the  hills, 
he  was  lying  in  the  dead  grass  on  that  slope  that 
overlooks  the  big  vineyards,  mimicking  a  bob- 
white  on  his  flute.  I  never  dreamed  but  that  it 
was  a  real  bird;  I  decided  it  must  be  hurt,  the 
note  was  so  high  and  peevish,  so  I  sneaked  towards 
it  through  the  grass,  soft  as  you  please,  till  I  all 
but  stepped  plump  on  the  little  scamp.  He  chuckled 
through  his  flute  when  he  saw  my  eyes  open,  I  tell 
you.  Then  he  sat  up  and  played  for  me;  he 
mimicked  a  fire-wing  blackbird  and  a  wren 
till  you'd  have  believed  you  wrere  sitting  on 
the  same  branch  with  them.  Pretty  soon 
his  face  lengthened  out,  and  he  put  down  his 
flute,  and  began  to  prophesy.  Tell  you,  it  was 
shivery !" 

"What  did  he  talk  about?"  Rose  was  suddenly 
interested. 

"Worst  mess  you  ever  dreamed  of.  He  put  his 
head  on  one  side,  like  a  chickadee,  and  pointed  to 
the  west,  and  said: 

"Turn  yourself,  M'sieu,  that  you  shall  face  in 
that  direction,  there,  to  the  sunset,  the  river. 
Is  it  that  you  have  the  good  sense  of  smell  ?  Tiens, 


Rose  385 

sniff  that  breeze,  now.  What  is  that  odour,  that 
gray  smell  which  rides  upon  the  wind  ? " 

"The  gray  smell?" 

"The  gray  smell.  That's  just  what  he  said.  I 
sniffed  obediently,  but,  of  course,  there  was  nothing 
— only  a  clean  little  whiff  of  the  river  and  the 
dried-out  fodder-stacks,  and  I  told  him  so.  He 
screwed  up  his  face  and  considered. 

'  *  M'sieu,  you  are  as  all  your  race,  hounds  without 
noses/  he  said,  sweet  as  honey.  'Ashes!  Can 
you  not  smell  them?  Can  you  not  see  them,  drift 
ing,  drifting?  Thick  on  your  clothes,  like  gray 
snow?  Thick  on  your  hands,  also?  Ashes!'" 

"Kansas!"     The  word  escaped  Rose  like  a  cry. 

"Exactly.  He  meant  the  way  those  Emigrant 
Aid  towns  have  been  sacked  and  burned  the  last 
few  weeks,  you  know.  Most  uncanny  thing,  to 
hear  him  tell  it.  Where  do  you  suppose  he  picked 
it  up?  Then  he  swung  his  hand  to  the  north. 

"If  it  is  that  you  cannot  smell,  M'sieu  le  Lieu 
tenant,  perhaps  it  is  that  you  can  hear.  Put  your 
head  to  the  ground;  by  chance  your  ear  may  catch 
the  pulse  of  the  thunder  which  is  so  soon  to  come.' 

"  I  put  my  head  down,  to  humour  his  whim.  Of 
course  I  heard  nothing  but  the  rustle  of  the  wind 
in  the  dead  vine-leaves.  He  tucked  his  chin  on 
his  flute,  and  looked  down  at  me.  Scorn?  His 
mouth  puckered  like  a  green  persimmon,  his  eyes 
fairly  shot  sparks. 

" '  Que  c'est  lamentable  ! '  he  said,  in  his  exasperat- 


386  Diane 

ing  little  chirp.  'M'sieu  and  his  nation  are  doubly 
handicapped.  Is  it  possible  that  you  feel  not  the 
jar  of  those  trampling  feet?  Can  it  be  that  you 
hear  not  the  sound  of  their  coming,  thousands  upon 
thousands?  The  march  of  the  North,  the 
avenger  ? ' 

"Honestly,  it  shook  me  a  little.  And  I  had  a 
queer  notion  that  the  next  would  be  something 
weirder  yet.  He  flourished  his  flute  towards  the 
South. 

"'When  they  come,  then  will  we  see  the  gay 
harvest  yonder/  he  said.  If  a  squirrel  could  laugh, 
it  would  laugh  as  he  did — all  his  little  teeth  set, 
white  as  roaster  kernels.  But  his  eyes  were  sad 
enough.  '  Red  brooks  shall  run,  the  country 
through.  Red  wheat  shall  be  cut  down.  Ah,  the 
brave  wheat,  that  grew  so  joyfully !  And  here 
among  us  is  the  harvest  a  time  of  pride  and  rejoicing. 
But  there  the  fruits  shall  be  garnered  heavily,  and 
with  tears/" 

"  Sydney,  what  could  he  mean  ?  Oh,  I  wish  Diane 
had  not  gone  away  !  He  misses  her  so  terribly,  and 
in  his  loneliness  he  conjures  up  all  these  unearthly 
things,  and  broods  over  them.  It's  enough  to  drive 
the  little  fellow  mad.  I  don't  know  what  will 
become  of  him." 

"  Pooh !  Persis  takes  good  care  of  him.  You 
needn't  worry  for  that."  Palmer  leaned  his  head 
on  both  hands  with  a  long,  shivering  sigh.  Unhappy 
prescience  darkened  his  boyish  face.  The  remorse- 


Rose  387 

less  Question  of  his  time  fretted  for  its  reply  in  his 
locked  lips,  his  perplexed  dreary  eyes. 

"Somebody  has  given  him  one  of  those  precious 
Black  Republican  newspapers,  and  he  has  spelled 
out  a  Yankee  editorial!"  snapped  the  Major,  from 
his  desk.  "  You'll  find  those  infernal  sheets  scattered 
round  everywhere.  I  ran  across  one  on  the  quarter- 
boat  yesterday.  Mulcahy's  jaw  dropped  when  he 
saw  me  pick  it  up.  It'll  drop  farther  if  I  find  any 
more  of  them!  The  wretched,  contemptible " 

"Good-bye,  father!"  Rose  stopped  his  bellig 
erent  lips  with  a  kiss.  She  caught  Palmer's  hand 
and  ran  with  him  to  the  lower  deck.  The  echo 
of  the  Major's  tirade  followed  them,  even  as  they 
climbed  into  the  Celandine. 

All  the  valley  lay  smiling  in  its  windless  sleep. 
Pale  sunshine  brooded  the  calm  fields,  and  dappled 
the  hills  with  gleam  and  shade  of  tarnished  gold. 
The  river  flowed  without  a  ripple,  soundless,  an 
aureate  flood;  the  very  river  of  autumn,  broad, 
golden,  teeming,  rich  with  august  fruition ;  peaceful 
as  the  year's  fair  afternoon. 

The  water  glanced  blue  and  silver  beneath 
Palmer's  oar.  His  falling  stroke  tossed  hollow 
echoes  from  shore  to  shore.  Rose  leaned  back  and 
watched  him  in  silence.  The  autumn  wind,  sweet 
as  departing  kisses,  ruffled  the  black  curls  around 
her  cheeks,  and  dried  the  tears  on  her  long  lashes. 
Memory  cut  to  the  quick  as  she  looked  at  him. 
The  stoop  and  swing  of  his  lithe  body  brought 


388  Diane 

Charming  back,  his  very  self,  clearly  as  though  he 
stood  before   her.     How   often  they   had   rowed 
together  in  the  old  days  ! 

Down  the  Potomac  through  the  long  June  after 
noons;  along  the  crisping  Chesapeake  shores,  while 
the  salt  fog  stung  their  eyelids,  and  the  stars  of 
Annapolis  shimmered  dim  as  the  stars  that  danced 
in  the  mist  above.  Past  the  battlements  of  old 
Fort  Washington,  to  peer  up  at  the  birches,  its  lone 
patient  sentinels,  to  search  the  overgrown  loopholes 
for  the  great  silent  guns,  which  lay  now  dumb 
before  the  salute  of  dawn,  the  fiery  challenge  of 
sunset.  It  was  all  a  world  away,  those  jewelled 
hours  of  summers  dead.  And  only  for  the  aged 
are  memories  sweet. 

"  There  comes  Petit  Clef  now,  and  Persis,  trailing 
after  him.  How  she  does  dote  on  the  little  scamp  ! " 
Palmer  swung  the  boat  inshore.  Rose  shook  hands 
with  Persis,  and  stooped  to  kiss  Petit  Clef.  He  set 
his  teeth  and  bore  the  caress  with  a  face  of  saintly 
resignation,  which  could  not  hide  the  exultant 
mischief  sparkling  from  every  feature. 

"Moi,  I  have  found  at  last  how  to  rid  myself  of 
this  devotion  most  fatigant."  he  whispered,  hopping 
along  close  at  Rose's  elbow,  while  Persis  followed 
at  a  respectful  distance.  "  By  accident  have  I 
discovered  that  of  all  things  terreebl'  unto  her,  the 
most  effrayant  are  these  beings  innocent  and 
joyeuses,  the  little  snakes  of  garters.  I  have 
remarked  at  table  that  I  do  greatly  admire  them 


Rose  389 

for  their  colour,  which  is  as  the  throats  of  peacocks, 
tout  irisee,  thereat  she  has  shrieked  with  a  voice 
which  made  me  to  leap  in  my  chair,  and  has  over 
turned  the  basin  of  milk  which  she  was  about  to 
set  upon  my  plate.  I  am  come  to  the  rescue,  being 
calm;  the  Madame  Manderson  has  rebuked  her,  for 
her  negligence,  and  has  given  of  praise  to  me, 
which  is  a  thing  unjust;  but  my  inspiration  is  not 
lost.  Until  to-day  she  has  pursued  me  with  an 
adoration  insufferable.  To-day  she  permits  me  to 
roam  at  my  will,  save  at  this  hour,  when  she  urges 
me  to  return  home,  and  to  sleep.  Sleep !  In 
daylight,  as  though  I  wore  still  the  swaddling- 
clothes!"  Petit  Clef's  small  nose  wrinkled  in 
unutterable  scorn.  "  I  go  now,  meekly ;  but  if  she 
shall  demand  to  escort  me  longer,  I  produce  my 
weapon,"  he  patted  his  pocket  with  a  gesture  of 
horrid  warning,  "and  you  will  behold  her  flee,  as 
flees  the  departing  earthquake.  We  shall  see  !  " 

"Do  not  be  so  naughty,  Petit  Clef.  You  know 
she  loves  you." 

"Ah,  oui,  vraiment!"  Petit  Clef  shrugged  his 
tiny  shoulders.  "But  love  unsought  turns  to  a 
fagot  too  heavy  for  one's  shoulders,  even  as  the 
elfin  gold  to  bars  of  lead.  Have  you  not  learned 
that,  Mademoiselle  the  Rose?" 

Rose  smiled  the  while  she  winced  beneath  his 
blithe,  unconscious  gibe.  True. 

Madame  Manderson  came  graciously  down  the 
path  between  the  withered  flower-beds  to  meet  them. 


39°  Diane 

A  lovely  scarlet  burned  in  the  hollow  of  her  soft 
cheek;  her  eyes  glowed  like  dark  stars  beneath  the 
deep  lace  hood  with  its  long  lappets  caught  with 
pearls  beneath  her  chin.  The  hands  which  she 
held  out  to  Rose  were  soft  and  cold  as  white  rose- 
petals.  She  greeted  them  both  with  charming, 
formal  welcome;  only  Persis  knew  how  heavily  she 
leaned  on  that  broad  arm,  how  feeble  were  the 
short,  uneven  steps  which  carried  her  back  to  the 
house. 

"You  haven't  been  near  me  for  so  long,  naughty 
children !  And  I  have  strange  news  for  you,"  she 
said,  as  she  lay  back  in  her  great  chair.  The  folds 
of  lace  across  her  bosom  thrilled  with  her  quick 
breathing;  she  spoke  with  a  pretty  insistence,  like 
an  excited  girl.  Always  there  clung  about  her  the 
perfume  of  an  ineffable  girlhood,  touching,  adorable. 
"  I  have  had  a  letter  from  Diane.  What  was  your 
last  news  from  her,  Rose?" 

"It  was  nearly  two  weeks  ago,  Madame.  She 
said  that  she  was  staying  with  the  Sisters  for  a 
while,  and  that  they  were  very  kind,  and  made  her 
feel  as  if  she  was  at  home  again.  I've  written  over 
and  over  since,  but  I  can't  get  an  answer  from  her. 
Do  tell  us  what  she  says." 

"  Then  she  did  not  tell  you  of  Pere  Cabet's  death  ? " 

"Why,  Madame!" 

"It  happened  the  same  night  that  they  reached 
St.  Louis.  Therese  sent  for  the  Sisters  directly,  and 
they  took  Diane  home  with  them  to  St.  Charles,  and 


Rose  391 

have  kept  her  there  ever  since.  She  was  ill  at 
first  from  the  shock,  too  ill  to  write,  and  from  the 
way  this  letter  runs,  I  can  see  that  she  thinks  we 
have  heard  all  about  it  in  the  meantime.  I  wrote 
to  Valentin  Saugier  yesterday,  and  asked  him  to 
tell  me  just  how  it  had  all  happened.  I  shall  not 
ask  Diane  any  questions.  She  need  not  be  re 
minded  of  her  grief." 

"But,  Madame,  she  promised  that  she  would 
send  for  me,  the  minute  she  needed  me!" 

"But  she  was  not  able  to  send  for  you  at  first, 
and  since  then  the  Sisters  have  cared  for  her. 
Besides — she  may  have  dreaded  seeing  any  one 
who  had  known  the  Pere  Cabet.  We  cannot  know 
all  that  this  sorrow  will  mean  to  her.  But — I  could 
wish  you  were  with  her  now." 

"Oh,  I'll  go  to  her  right  away!  The  poor,  poor 
little  lonely  soul!" 

"It  is  not  that."  Madame  fumbled  through  her 
reticule.  "She  is  not  unhappy  with  the  Sisters. 
She — I  think  that  they  are  planning  to  keep  her 
with  them,  always." 

Palmer  broke  into  an  angry  exclamation.  Rose 
started  to  her  feet. 

"  Madame,  she  shan't  think  of  it !  She's  not  the 
girl  for  that  life,  never !  Oh,  I  won't  have  it  so ! 
It's  just  because  she's  been  so  unhappy  since 
Pere  Cabet 's  death,  and  she  imagines  she'll  find 
comfort  in  that,  the  poor  baby !  Then  the  Sisters 
want  her.  Anybody  would  want  her,  for  that 


392  Diane 

matter.  And  they've  coaxed.  I  know  just  the 
way  they'd  do.  Oh,  she  just  shan't  do  it !" 

"But,  Rose " 

"  Yes,  Madame,  I  know.  She  thinks  it's  the  only 
right,  safe  way.  The  Sisters  brought  her  up,  you 
know.  It's  no  wonder  she  turns  to  them  when 
she's  so  unhappy.  But  it — it's  different,  now. 
She  has  other  things  to  reckon  with.  Father  will 
let  me  go  to  St.  Louis  on  my  way  home,  and  I'll 
just  pick  her  up  and  take  her  on  to  Belhaven  with 
me  for  the  winter.  After  that — perhaps  things 
will  work  out." 

Her  voice  sank  suddenly.  Madame  Manderson 
searched  nervously  through  the  bag  again.  Palmer 
strode  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  Each 
turned  aside  to  hide  his  secret  thought.  Yet  had 
they  looked  into  the  faces  of  one  another,  each 
would  have  beheld  his  secret,  written  clear. 

"That  would  be  a  wise  plan.  But  read  the 
letter,  Rose,  dear."  Madame  laid  the  little  violet 
sheet  on  Rose's  knee.  Her  voice  shook  with  a  new 
note  of  poignant  tenderness. 

Rose  glanced  through  the  stilted  opening  sen 
tences.  The  last  page  she  read  aloud,  with  steady 
lips  and  slow,  deep-flaming  colour. 

"'Among  my  duties,  these  privileges  that  I  do 
dearly  love,  is  that  of  decorating  the  chapel  for 
the  service  of  vespers,  that  hour  when  our  little 
sisters,  the  pupils,  sing  as  the  choir.  Upon  the 
afternoon  of  Tuesday,  which  is  three  days  since, 


Rose  393 

while  I  arrange  the  music,  I  am  summoned  to  the 
hall  of  waiting,  where  I  am  most  amazed  to  behold 
the  Captain  Channing.'  Bob  wrote  to  me,  Madame, 
some  time  ago.  I  don't  remember  whether  I  told 
you  of  it.  He  said  he  was  going  to  St.  Louis,  so 
I  sent  him  word  where  to  find  Diane." 

Madame  nodded  slightly.  Her  soft  gaze  rested 
upon  the  girl  in  a  look  of  proud  understanding. 

"'He  had  ridden  many  long  miles,  and  seemed 
most  weary  from  his  journey.  He  expected  to 
return  soon  to  the  north  upon  the  great  boat  of 
steam.  Then  he  will  see  you  once  more,  dear, 
dearest  Madame.  Myself,  I  envy  him  the  honour 
and  the  joy.  Yet  I  am  most  fortunate  and  happy 
here,  with  the  kind  Sisters,  who  do  all  things  to  give 
me  comfort.  It  is  their  wish  that  I  remain  with 
them  always.  Also  I  begin  to  believe  that  it  is 
wisest  for  me,  so  to  do.  Perhaps  it  is  well  that  I 
have  no  ties  of  kindred,  for  thus  are  there  none  who 
can  be  needed  of  me.  Also  I  can  enter  upon  my 
work  with  a  heart  single  and  undivided. 

"'Their  wish  is  that  I  shall  begin  immediately 
upon  my  studies  as  a  novice.  My  novitiate  will 
be  hastened,  because  of  my  solitary  estate ;  within  a 
year's  time,  I  shall  be  enabled  to  take  the  black  veil. 
I  have  not  yet  given  to  them  reply,  for  I  await  your 
counsel,  and  that  of  my  Soeur  Aloysia,  she  who  has 
cared  for  me  while  that  I  was  yet  enfant.  She  can 
judge  whether  I  am  of  a  capacity  and  of  a  merit  for 
this  most  solemn  privilege.  Therefore,  I  beseech 


394  Diane 

you  also,  dear  Madame,  that  you  tell  to  me  what  is 
your  wsh,  your  judgment,  upon  this  decision,  for 
me  so  profound. 

"'I  present  to  you  my  love  most  sincere,  my 
wishes  for  all  happiness. 

DIANE  DE  LAHAUTIERE.'" 

Rose  put  the  letter  back  in  Madame's  lap.  Her 
face  was  very  white. 

"I  shall  go  to  her  right  away,  Madame.  The 
Tennessee  is  due  here  at  seven  o'clock;  Sydney  will 
row  me  up  to  the  landing.  I  won't  lose  another 
minute.  And  I'll  bring  her  straight  back  with  me, 
too.  But  Channing!  What  can  it  mean?  That 
letter  was  written  a  week  ago,  and  we've  not  had  a 
word  nor  a  sign  of  him.  Could  she  be  mistaken? 
Perhaps  he  meant  that  he  was  going  on  up  the 
Ohio,  and  so  on  to  Washington.  Or  maybe  he 
was  on  his  way  North  on  the  Missouri  to  his  Kansas 
claim.  Surely  he'd  be  here  by  this  time,  unless 
something  has  happened." 

"I  have  tried  in  vain  to  understand  it,"  said 
Madame,  a  little  wearily.  "He  must  have  spoken 
of  coming  here;  why  else  would  she  speak  of  his 
seeing  us?  She  must  be  very  homesick,  poor  little 
girl.  It  is  good  of  you  to  think  of  going  to  her,  my 
Rose.  But  had  you  not  best  wait,  till  you  can  see 
him,  and  learn  what  he  thinks  best?" 

"But  Channing  isn't  here,  and  I  shan't  wait  till 
he  comes.  It's  too  hazardous.  Besides,  I — I'm 


Rose  395 

afraid  for  Charming,  somehow,  I  don't  know  why. 
Something  must  have  happened." 

"Something  has  happened,'*  said  Palmer,  from 
the  window.  He  turned  and  faced  them  defiantly. 
A  curious  dusky  pallour  marred  his  keen  young 
face.  Rose  started  at  his  low,  hoarse  tone. 

"  Mother  told  me  about  it  yesterday.  It  was  all 
along  of  that  trouble  last  May,  you  know,  when 
he  helped  Friend  Barclay  start  those  runaways 
North.  The  authorities  have  been  watching  for 
him  ever  since.  They  arrested  him  at  a  tavern 
midway  between  St.  Louis  and  St.  Charles,  on 
Wednesday,  the  day  after  he  saw — Diane.  He 
resisted  arrest,  and  they  fired  after  him.  They 
didn't  hit  him,  but  they  shot  the  horse  from  under 
him,  and  he  was  pretty  badly  bruised  in  the  fall. 
His  knee  was  hurt,  and  his  head.  I  don't  know 
how  seriously.  They  brought  him  up  on  the  Jessie 
Mack  yesterday.  He's  in  prison  in  that  fortified 
warehouse  down  at  the  Point  now." 

Rose  staggered  to  her  feet.  Her  pitiful  secret 
leaped  its  bounds  in  her  sobbing  cry.  "Channing — 
hurt !  And  you  didn't  tell  me !  Oh,  Sydney,  how 
could  you!  How  could  you!" 

"  I  didn't  know  how  to  say  it,"  blundered  Palmer, 
angry  and  remorseful.  "I  knew  you'd  be  so 
grieved — Rose,  you  can't  go  to  him.  They  won't 
let  you  inside  the  place,  even.  I  know.  I've 
tried.  Besides,  he  doesn't  want  to  see  us — he 
wouldn't  if  he  could." 


396  Diane 

Rose  turned  on  him,  aflame.  "I'm  going  for 
Diane,"  she  flung  at  him,  every  word  a  sob.  "I 
know  very  well  that  Channing  won't  want  to  see 
us.  How  could  he  ?  Think  of  the  way  I  reproached 
him!  Think  of  the  way  you  dared  to  turn  from 
him!" 

"But,  Rose " 

"Of  course  he  was  wrong.  But  he  had  a  right 
to  believe  as  he  pleased.  And  he  had  a  right  to 
act  as  he  pleased,  too.  I'm  proud  of  him,  if  he  is  a 
criminal.  He's  my  own  cousin,  anyhow.  No,  you 
need  not  go  with  me!"  She  snatched  herself  from 
his  detaining  arm.  The  tears  streamed  over  her 
hot  cheeks.  "I'm  going  straight  for  Diane " 

"  I  don't  see  what  good  that  will  do !  She  can't 
help,  and  his  case  is  likely  to  hang  on  for  months. 
There's  Friend  Barclay,  too,  shut  up  with  him,  on 
the  same  charge,  and  it's  a  serious  charge,  I  can 
tell  you  that.  The  penalties " 

"What  do  I  care  for  the  penalties?  I'm  going — 
oh,  Sydney  !  What  have  we  done?" 

The  strain  of  the  angry  scene  had  taxed  Madame 
beyond  her  frail  endurance.  She  lay  back,  ghost - 
white,  struggling  for  breath. 

"  I  shall  be  better  in  a  little,  dear,"  she  whispered, 
when  they  had  borne  her  to  her  own  room  and 
laid  her  on  the  high -pillowed  bed.  A  faint  returning 
colour  tinted  her  lips  and  warmed  her  soft,  cold 
cheek.  Her  eyes  shone  with  a  grave,  pure  radiance ; 
that  welling  light  which  glorifies  the  look  of  those  who 


Rose  397 

are  but  lately  come  into  the  world,  and  of  those  who 
wait  their  peaceful  hour  to  go.  "Hurry,  Rose,  my 
child.  Bring  Diane.  Tell  her  that  I  need  her, 
dear.  Say  to  her  that  since  none  of  her  own  blood 
remain,  I  am  going  to  claim  her  as  my  own.  And 
tell  her — "  the  dark  eyes  wandered  smiling  to  the 
great,  dim  portrait,  in  its  broad,  golden  frame, 
guarded  by  crossed  swords — to  that  beloved  face 
which  had  watched  with  her  the  passing  of  these 
steadfast  waiting  years — "Tell  her  that,  as  she  has 
asked  it,  I  would  wish  to  give  her — my  counsel." 

A  thread  of  a  new  moon  traced  its  silver  anaglyph 
above  the  fading  arras  of  the  west.  Night  brooded 
the  naked  trees,  crowding  close  along  the  barren 
shore;  but  the  river  hoarded  every  paling  glimmer. 
Moveless  as  marble  it  lay,  a  broad,  gray,  gleaming 
coil;  keen  scintillations  fleeted  down  its  burnished 
surface,  like  the  ripple  of  light  upon  a  sword. 

"It  is  a  thing  unjust,  most  monstrous,  that  I  go 
not  with  you,  Mademoiselle,"  proclaimed  Petit  Clef, 
with  sad  reproach.  He  sat  on  the  edge  of  the 
steamer  landing,  and  swung  his  feet  out  over  the 
edge,  to  the  loud  dismay  of  poor  Per  sis,  who  hovered 
apprehensively  near.  His  tiny  body  rocked  as  a 
moth  rocks  on  a  yielding  stalk;  in  the  weird  half- 
light,  one  fancied  that  he  balanced  himself  on 
impalpable,  swift-fanning  wings.  Yet  the  whine 
in  his  small  voice  was  essentially  human.  "You 
know  well  that  you  need  my  protection.  Also 


398  Diane 

Diane  longs  to  behold  me.  Why  do  you  not  take 
me  with  you,  and  thus  free  me — "  he  glanced 
behind  him  and  finished  his  sentence  in  French,  with 
a  demoniac  scowl — "and  free  me  from  the  body  of 
this  death?" 

"The  boy  is  right,"  grumbled  Major  Faulkner. 
He  put  a  jealous  arm  about  his  daughter.  The 
Tennessee  shot  around  the  bend,  a  luminous  ghost 
ly  pile,  heralded  with  trumpet-torch  of  green  and 
red,  her  shadow-twin  mirrored  in  checker  of  light 
on  the  surface  below.  The  trill  of  flute  and  violin 
chimed  in  fantastic  rhythm  with  the  plash  of  the 
sundered  water.  "I  don't  know  what  I'm  thinking 
of,  to  let  you  go  alone.  Such  nonsense !  Why 
don't  you  write  her  to  come  up  here  at  once,  and 
save  yourself  the  trip?  Come,  now,  do,  and  let 
it  go  at  that." 

"  She  might  not  come  for  a  letter,  father."  Rose's 
voice  was  spent  and  toneless.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  dark,  rough-hewn  bulk,  faintly  visible, 
at  the  southernmost  rim  of  the  Point.  Palmer 
followed  her  glance.  His  fine  lips  tightened.  The 
hand  which  had  rested  lightly  on  Petit  Clef's 
shoulder  clutched  now  with  a  grip  which  made  the 
child  wince  away. 

"I'll  be  very  careful,  dear.  You  know  Madame 
may  not  get  well,  and — she  wants  her.  We  will 
come  back  on  the  next  boat.  It  won't  be  more 
than  a  week,  altogether;  besides,  the  Captain  will 
take  care  of  me,  Good-bye," 


Rose  399 

She  slid  from  his  grudging  clasp,  and  hurried 
lightly  across  the  creaking  stage.  The  boat  scarcely 
stopped;  the  big  plank  rose  with  a  groan  and  a 
shriek  of  grating  cogs  as  she  reached  the  deck. 

She  stood  watching  the  figures  ashore  till  the 
river  fog  rolled  between  and  hid  them  from  her 
sight.  She  was  tired  beyond  words;  yet  a  strange 
new  peace  laid  its  touch  of  healing  upon  heart  and 
brain.  Quietly,  patiently,  she  went  forth  on  her 
solemn,  exquisite  errand — to  bring  a  light  and  a 
comfort  unto  failing  eyes;  to  sacrifice  her  own 
beloved,  unspoken  hope  upon  the  altar  of  another's 
joy. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
THE    CLOSING    DOOR 

ALL  the  cottage  windows  were  flung  wide  to  the 
sweet  waning  afternoon,  yet  a  low  fire  crackled  on 
Madame's  hearth,  and  added  its  ripple  and  glow 
to  the  glad  quiet  which  filled  the  little  house. 
Petit  Clef  had  scoured  his  woods  the  day  before, 
and  had  staggered  home  beneath  heaped  armfuls 
of  treasure.  Ferns  and  wraiths  of  golden-rod, 
frost-seared  and  pungent-sweet,  nodded  from  the 
tall  vases  on  the  mantel ;  branches  of  mountain-ash 
lit  the  high  chimney-piece  with  clustered  flame, 
like  berries  of  live  coal.  Petit  Clef  sat  on  the 
ottoman  at  the  foot  of  Madame's  bed.  He  was 
counting  the  bunch  of  violets  on  his  knee,  and 
separating  them  into  carefully  numbered  bunches. 
Madame  smiled  at  the  furrows  of  stern  computation 
on  his  small  forehead 

"  Petit  Clef,  do  you  feel  quite  sure  that  they  will 
come  to-day  ?  Remember,  we  have  had  no  word ; 
and  it  would  be  too  bad  if  your  preparations  should 
all  be  lost." 

"Trust  Mademoiselle  Rose  for  that;  what  she 
proposes  will  be  performed.  Only  I  wish  that  I 
might  do  my  part  as  well.  If  Mesdames  les  Violettes 

400 


The  Closing  Door  401 

will  be  such  fools  as  to  mistake  November  for  April, 
I  would  that  they  had  had  enough  of  generosity  to 
make  their  blunder  with  the  whole  heart.  Such 
dwarfs,  such  makeshifts!"  He  cast  one  forlorn 
atomy  into  the  fire  with  a  snarl  of  disgust.  "Ah, 
bah !  How  am  I  to  compose  my  bouquets  d'hon- 
neur  from  these  boiteuses  ?  I  must  have — two — four 
— seven — eight,  if  I  include  myself.  Eight  bouquets 
from  thirty-seven  violets!  Infamous!" 
"Eight !  Why  so  many,  little  man?" 
"  Eight  are  required,  else  some  one  must  be  neg 
lected,  Madame.  One  for  Rose,  one  for  Diane,  one 
also  for  M'sieu  le  Capitaine,  he  who  lies  imprisoned, 
and  a  bunch  for  M'sieu  Palmer,  who  goes  free. 
For  yourself,  the  most  beautiful  spray  of  all;  and  I 
may  not  forget  Persis,  even  though  I  may  not  bribe 
her  to  forget  me."  He  grimaced  towards  the 
kitchen.  "Then  there  must  be  one  also  for  the 
Pere  Cabet." 

"Why,  Petit  Clef!" 

"Would  you  have  me  neglect  him,  Madame?" 
Madame  wound  the  silken  fringes  of  her  scarf 
through  her  slight  fingers.  This  was  the  first 
time  that  Petit  Clef  had  spoken  of  the  Master. 
Stoical  beyond  his  baby  years,  he  had  kept  his 
grief  his  own.  Only  Persis  knew  how  he  sobbed 
into  his  pillow  when  he  fancied  the  rest  asleep. 

She  sighed  faintly.  "No,  dear.  But  Captain 
Channing — do  not  tell  Diane  of  his  trouble  when 
she  first  arrives.  She  will  be  tired  and  excited  as 


402  Diane 

it  is.  And  had  you  better  show  her  the  flowers  for 
Pere  Cabet  ?  It  might  only  pain  her." 

"Probably  she  will  not  understand.  Women 
seldom  do."  Petit  Clef  took  the  four  pale  blossoms, 
and  tucked  them  into  a  vase.  "However,  he 
knows  now,  which  is  the  main  thing.  Ah,  Madame, 
she  comes!  Behold  her,  my  Diane!" 

There  was  a  roll  of  wheels,  then  Persis'  voice, 
uplifted  in  noise  of  joyful  greeting.  Madame 
raised  herself  high  on  her  pillows  to  see.  She 
was  not  to  wait  for  long.  With  the  rush  of  a  freed 
bird,  Diane  sped  into  the  room  and  into  her  waiting 
arms. 

"It  is  not  yourself,  my  Diane,"  Petit  Clef  com 
plained,  when  she  had  turned  from  Madame  to 
smother  him  in  kisses.  "Ah,  no!  You  are  not 
my  real  princess.  Your  eyes  are  too  big,  and  your 
cheeks  are  too  white.  And  that  black  gown,  that 
horror !  Go,  put  on  your  blossom  dress,  that  blue 
of  the  river  in  March,  with  the  little  rosebuds  and 
the  collar  of  deceitful  leaves  upon  it.  Certainly, 
you  love  us  as  well  in  that  shroud,  but  how  can  we 
love  you?  Go,  Mademoiselle,  je  t'en  prie  !" 

Diane  hesitated,  and  looked  to  Rose  for  judgment. 
Since  the  hour  of  their  first  meeting,  she  had  leaned 
by  instinct  on  Rose's  moods.  Through  these  last 
hurtling  days  she  had  trusted  every  decision  to  her 
wishes.  Rose  had  swept  down  upon  her  at  the 
Convent  and  had  carried  her  away  without  waiting 
to  hear  her  protests.  The  Sisters'  arguments  had 


The  Closing:  Door  403 

fallen  upon  deaf  ears:  the  Mother's  puzzled  re 
monstrance  had  met  with  no  reply.  Diane  was  not 
without  spirit,  but  she  yielded  with  inexpressible 
relief  to  the  divine  calm  of  resting  on  a  stronger 
will.  She  would  go  with  Rose,  to  see  Madame,  and 
to  receive  her  counsel.  After  that,  her  life  might 
shape  itself  as  it  would.  But  until  then,  she  would 
have  peace. 

"Would  it  please  you  so  very  much,  Petit  Clef? 
What  say  you,  Rose?" 

"  Go  and  put  it  on,  child.  Indeed,  I'll  be  thankful 
to  see  you  in  something  of  your  own.  Put  on  the 
shoes  that  go  with  it,  too.  Persis  is  going  to  give 
us  a  wonderful  tea,  and  she  will  be  delighted  if  you 
dress  for  it." 

Joyously  compliant,  Diane  ran  away  to  her  little 
room,  calling  Persis  to  help  her.  A  glance  of  under 
standing  passed  between  the  two  women.  Petit 
Clef  arose  and  sauntered  to  the  door,  whistling  softly. 
But  through  his  tune  his  forest-taught  ear  caught 
their  low  whispered  words. 

"She  asked  for  him,  Madame,  but  I — I  couldn't 
bear  to  tell  her.  Sydney  thinks  I  don't  know  how 
that  crime  is  rated,  nor  how  shameful  the  penalty 
is.  I  do  know.  And  it's  hard  enough  for  me  to 
bear  it  without  telling  Diane." 

Madame  drew  Rose's  hand  against  her  cheek. 

"Sydney  came  aboard  the  steamer  at  the  Fort 
Edwards  landing  and  came  up  here  with  us.  I 
think  Diane  scarcely  remembers  him.  She's  been 


404  Diane 

so  sad  about  Pere  Cabet  and  so  excited  about  other 
things  that  she  forgets  everything  else.  She  asked 
Sydney  about  Bob,  too.  Somehow — of  course, 
Sydney  can't  be  expected  to  know  how  things  stand ; 
he  thinks  Bob  no  better  than  a  common  criminal ;  but 
I  was  sorry  for  Sydney.  It  seemed  to  fret  him  so 
when  she  asked.  He  muttered  that  he  hadn't  seen 
him,  and  that  he  had  not  been  around  the  boats. 
Diane  didn't  say  anything  more,  but  Sydney  is 
blind  if  he  couldn't  read  the  disappointment  in  her 
eyes.  He  tried  to  be  nice  to  her;  he  didn't  notice 
how  completely  she  disregarded  everything  that 
he  had  to  say.  He  even  asked  whether  he  might 
come  up  for  an  hour  to-night,  and,  of  course,  I  said 
yes,  though  I  could  see  Diane  was  puzzled.  So 
was  I,  for  that  matter.  I  should  think  he'd  realise 
by  this  time — but  Sydney  always  was  slow  to  see 
things." 

Madame  smiled,  with  closed  eyes.  One  glance 
at  Palmer's  flushed  face  had  told  her  all  the  story. 
From  her  dim  chamber,  she  watched  the  quaint, 
pathetic  little  play  as  the  magician  of  old  viewed 
the  world  reflected  in  his  sphere  of  crystal. 

"I'd  not  distress  myself  about  him,  Rose,  child. 
Those  matters  adjust  themselves  with  time.  Mean 
while,  I'm  thankful  to  have  you  both  with  me  again. 
Here  is  Diane,  now.  Here  is  our  own  little  girl  once 
more !" 

Diane  danced  in,  young  April,  all  doubtful 
laughter  and  glad  tears.  Her  long  skirts  swept  and 


The  Closing:  Doof  405 

swirled  about  her  narrow  feet  in  the  arched  green 
shoes,  powdered  with  tracery  of  silver;  her  bronze 
hair  ruffled  in  flying  rings  beneath  the  long,  drooping 
wreath  of  silken  moss-rosebuds,  whose  crisp  gauze 
ribbons  curled  against  her  white,  bare  neck.  Low 
over  the  puffed  transparent  sleeves  hung  the  collar 
of  deceitful  leaves,  as  Petit  Clef  had  demanded;  a 
bertha  of  rose  leaves,  cut  from  pale-green  velvet, 
veined  and  stemmed  with  stiff  gilt  thread,  fringed 
with  tiny  bobbing  buds.  She  swept  them  a  flowing 
courtesy;  her  silken  flounces  sang  like  withered 
leaves  before  the  gale. 

"  Ah,  joy  ! "  cried  Petit  Clef,  enraptured.  "  Regard, 
she  has  forgotten  nothing,  even  to  the  miniature, 
and  the  rope  of  golden  beads.  Behold,  the  little 
roses  which  climb  about  the  steps  of  your  gown ;  in 
truth,  no  man  would  know  that  they  are  roses, 
save  that  they  are  red  and  green;  but  who  cares? 
Also  do  I  love  that  ladder  of  lace,  built  for  the 
roses  to  clamber  on,  when  they  weary  of  running 
round  and  round.  Ah,  you  are  now  our  Diane, 
stray  Queen  of  Fairyland." 

"Come  to  your  tea,  you  poet,  and  stop  your 
flattery!"  Rose  snatched  him  up  and  carried  him 
struggling  and  laughing  to  the  dining-room.  He 
blinked  an  impish  eye  at  Diane,  who  hovered 
close  behind. 

"You  will  serve  for  the  feast  of  the  eye,  Made 
moiselle,"  he  called  to  her,  with  airy,  exquisite 
raillery.  The  note  of  devotion  had  vanished; 


406  Diane 

mischief  consummate  lit  his  brown  eyes.  "But, 
my  Rose — ah,  my  real  Rose !  She  sets  forth  the 
feast  of  the  heart." 

They  made  a  merry  group,  the  three  of  them, 
around  the  low  polished  table  which  Persis  had 
decked  with  all  Madame 's  treasures  of  egg-shell  and 
silver,  and  heaped  with  every  dainty  that  her 
cunning  hands  could  concoct.  Their  joy  was  all 
the  dearer  that  it  trembled  on  the  brink  of  Regret. 
Diane's  sweet  eyes  grew  dark,  her  voice  faltered, 
when  Persis  pressed  on  her  the  grapes  which  she 
knew  had  been  plucked  in  the  Commune  vineyards. 
Rose  was  feverishly  gay ;  yet  she  started,  trembling, 
at  every  sound.  Petit  Clef  alone  ate  with  peace  and 
appetite.  From  time  to  time  he  considered  the 
two  with  grave  pity  over  his  bowl  of  cream.  As 
suredly  girls  were  all  very  well  while  the  sun  shone; 
but  when  it  came  a  day  of  storm — prut !  they 
folded  up  like  morning-glories.  It  was  regrettable. 
One  should  felicitate  one's  self  that  one  belonged 
not  to  a  sex  so  susceptible. 

After  tea  Diane  slipped  back  to  Madame 's  bed 
side.  Rose  strolled  away  down  the  hill  to  meet 
Palmer;  from  the  west  window  they  had  seen  him 
beach  the  Celandine  and  start  upward  on  his  long 
climb  to  the  house.  Thus  deserted,  Petit  Clef  spent 
a  few  minutes  in  teasing  Persis,  then  clambered 
into  his  pet  hiding-place,  a  tall  cedar,  which  stood 
like  a  dark  seneschal  at  the  door.  Two  or  three 
branches  had  been  cut  out  midway  on  one  side, 


The  Closing  Doof  4° 7 

making  a  tiny  space,  roofed  and  walled  by  the 
prickling  aromatic  spikes.  When  Petit  Clef  had 
parted  the  tasselled  branches  and  crept  within  he 
might  have  been  a  belated  robin,  for  all  that  eye 
could  see. 

Here  he  sat  playing  softly  on  his  flute,  in  breezy 
mimicry  of  the  twilight  sounds  around  him;  the 
cheep  of  a  cricket,  frost-numbed  yet  cheery,  in  its 
nest  of  withered  leaves;  the  ebb  and  flow  of  Persis' 
crooning  hymn;  the  fitful  tinkle  of  bells,  rising 
faint  and  sweet  as  altar  chimes  from  the  lowland 
pastures.  Twice  Persis  came  to  the  door  and 
called  him ;  the  second  time,  the  hoot  of  an  owl  from 
the  branch  just  above  her  head  sent  her  scuttling 
into  the  house  with  a  shriek  of  terror  at  the  ill- 
omened  note.  Petit  Clef  smiled  his  smile  of  the 
submissive  cherub,  and  continued  to  sound  his 
eerie  warning  at  judicious  intervals.  Presently  the 
witchery  of  coming  night  claimed  him  for  its  own. 
He  leaned  back,  blinking  through  pendulous  branches 
at  the  gray,  dew-fleeced  vineyards,  the  river,  a 
girdle  of  gold  beneath  the  crouching  hills.  The 
world  grew  very  still. 

The  western  sky  flared  radiant,  yet  early  moon 
light  illumined  Madame's  chamber  like  pallid  candle- 
flames.  Beneath  its  rays  Diane's  gay  finery  bleached 
to  finery  of  ashes.  Even  the  long  shawl  of  amber 
crape,  which  wrapped  Madame's  frail  shoulders, 
faded  to  dusky  rose.  Its  changing  tones  brought 
out  with  sad  distinctness  the  autumn  message 


408  Diane 

written  upon  her  face.  Even  Diane's  child  eyes 
must  see  and  read.  For  her  own  part,  Madame's 
vision  was  yet  clear  and  sure.  The  record  of  Diane's 
pale  cheek  and  saddened  gaze  proved  that  which 
her  heart  had  read  through  months  long  past. 

So  they  talked,  their  arms  about  each  other,  as 
women  talk  who  trust  each  other  with  the  trust  of 
mother  and  child.  Behind  them  lay  the  deep 
waters.  Before  them  rolled  still  "a  deeper  Sea. 
For  this  one  little  hour,  they  might  stand  face  to 
face,  speak  soul  to  soul,  in  safety  and  in  peace. 

"When  Pere  Cabet  left  you,  my  dear  one — no, 
I  will  not  let  you  talk  of  that.  I  know  enough 
from  what  Valentin  wrote  me.  So  you  went  then 
to  the  Sisters?  And  you  were  ill,  and  they  cared 
for  you  most  kindly?  So  much  your  letters  have 
said." 

"They  had  the  kindness  of  angels,  Madame.  It 
seemed  as  though  I  was  once  more  enfant,  with 
the  dear  Sisters  who  reared  me." 

"  I  felt  sure  that  they  would  never  fail  you.  But 
was  it  always  homelike,  daughter?  Was  it  all 
contentment  ? " 

A  tremour  crossed  Diane's  calm  lips.  The  hand 
that  enfolded  Madame's  grew  cold. 

"It  was  not  all  contentment,  Madame.  Doubt 
less  that  was  my  own  grievous  fault.  Perhaps  my 
sorrow  was  to  blame.  I  did  my  part  in  so  far  as  I 
was  permitted.  But  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  was 
useless,  a  burden." 


The  Closing  Door  409 

"And  the  work  they  gave  you  to  do,  Diane — - 
Was  it  helpful  ?  Was  it  necessary  ?  " 

Diane  drew  back,  hotly  flushing  at  the  treason 
which  her  lips  already  formed. 

"  It  was  not  my  part  to  question  the  judgment  of 
our  Mother,  the  Superieure,"  she  whispered.  "But 
— oh,  Madame,  I  was  lonely !  I  wished  to  care  for 
the  sick,  to  teach  the  children;  they  said  that  I 
had  not  strength  for  these  duties;  they  could  not 
see  that  what  I  desired  was  the  right — the  right  to 
be  useful.  To  live!" 

Madame's  eyes  were  dark  stars. 

"  So  you  would  not  promise  to  enter  upon  a  novi 
tiate?" 

Diane  slid  to  her  knees  by  the  bed.  Madame 
drew  the  fair  wreathed  head  against  her  cheek. 

"Tell  me  all  of  it,  dear  darling.  Do  not  try  to 
carry  it  alone." 

The  low  confession  reached  her  ear  in  heart -beats 
rather  than  in  syllables. 

"Always  they  urged  me,  Madame,  and  always  I 
knew,  in  truth,  that  the  cloister  was  my  right  and 
fitting  home.  Only  I  held  back,  though  I  shamed 
myself  for  my  unrest ;  for  in  my  own  heart  I  had  not 
content,  though  I  could  not  find  out  why  it  should 
be  so.  But  when  he  came — the  Capitaine  Channing 
— and  talked  with  me — I  knew. 

"He  is  heretic,  I  know  that.  But  his  words 
carried  truth,  Madame.  He  told  me  that  I  knew 
not  life,  and,  being  ignorant,  I  could  not  decide  for 


410  Diane 

myself,  alone.  He  spoke  of  that  new  country 
where  he  would  go  again  to  make  his  home;  yet  I 
would  not  listen,  for  I  felt  that  my  evil  discontent 
awoke  within  me  at  his  words.  Then  he  spoke  on — 
of  other  things.  I  would  not  stay  to  hear.  I  did 
not  dare. 

"When  he  had  gone,  I  went  away  alone,  and 
thought  until  I  understood.  These  things  are  the 
temptations  which  are  sent  upon  us  for  our  proving. 
That  is  the  testimony  of  all  the  holy  Fathers. 
That  is  the  cross  which  every  soul  must  bear  before 
it  is  fit  for  service.  Therefore  I  have  wished  your 
counsel,  and  for  the  desires  of  my  Sceur  Aloysia. 
For,  as  he  has  said,  of  myself  I  cannot  judge.  And 
if  it  is  your  desire  and  that  of  my  most  revered 
Sister,  I  return  to  take  up  this  work.  For  of 
myself  I  cannot  know." 

Madame  did  not  seem  to  hear  her  last  low  words. 

"  You  say  he  talked  of  other  things,  dear.  What 
were  they?  Ah,  darling,  you  need  not  tell  it.  I 
know.  I  know!" 

Presently  she  spoke  again,  her  thin  hands  stroking 
the  face  against  her  breast. 

"  Diane,  when  I  was  seventeen,  at  school  with  the 
dear  Sisters,  I  believed  as  you  believe;  that  these 
dreams  which  come  to  us  unbidden  are  temptations, 
sent  for  us  to  resist.  So  when  my  own  hope  came, 
I  thrust  it  away  with  all  my  might.  I  prayed  for  it 
to  be  taken  from  me.  I  beat  out  my  heart  against 
it  like  a  foolish  bird.  I  could  not  realise  that  I 


The  Closing  Door  411 

was  striving  to  crush  out  the  best  within  me.  I 
could  not  know  that  my  life  was  mine  only  until 
the  hour  came  for  me  to  yield  it  to  another. 

"  Dear,  a  woman's  road  is  a  long  road.  Some 
women  there  are  who  can  live  out  their  days  alone 
and  be  content.  They  are  not  as  you  and  I.  There 
are  others  who  think  love  is  a  thing  to  buy  and  to 
sell.  With  them,  love  stands  for  wealth  and 
splendour  and  high  place.  For  us — we  do  not 
care.  It  may  be  a  palace ;  it  may  be  a  cabin.  That 
does  not  matter.  But  one  thing  we  must  have: 
the  joy  of  giving.  Granted  that,  the  rest  of  the 
world  may  go. 

"Oh,  my  little  girl !  If  I  could  only  show  you 
what  my  own  life  has  been,  then  you  would  see ! 
Then  you  would  understand !  Forty  years,  Diane, 
we  spent  together,  boy  and  girl,  my  love  and  I. 
The  sorrows  came,  yes ;  but  we  learned  to  bear  them 
for  each  other,  and  that  made  them  holy.  We 
had  to  face  fear  and  anxiety  and  shame;  but  we 
could  brave  them  out  together.  Even  now,  while 
I  wait  here,  an  old  woman,  dying,  I  am  not  lonely. 
For  I  know  that  he  waits,  too." 

The  sweet  voice  sank  and  trailed  away  into 
silence. 

Diane  raised  her  head  and  slipped  gently  from 
Madame's  relaxing  arms.  Moonlight  overflowed 
the  little  room.  Beneath  its  limpid  radiance, 
Madame's  face  lay  with  close-shut  eyes,  as  carved 
in  pearl. 


412  Diane 

"I'm  very  tired,  Diane — daughter."  The  words 
came  in  whispers  threaded  upon  a  sigh.  "  I  think — 
I'll  sleep.  You  need  not  stay  by  me,  dear.  Good 
night." 

Diane  drew  the  shawl  away  and  laid  her  down 
among  the  pillows.  In  her  extremity  of  weariness, 
she  slept  before  the  girl  had  finished  arranging  the 
covering  about  her. 

Diane  sat  down,  folding  the  long  crape  shawl 
about  her  bare  throat.  She  shut  her  little  hands 
over  the  carved  pomegranates  on  the  low  foot 
board.  Her  eyes  grew  heavy  with  slow,  anguished 
tears. 

The  night  was  growing  chill,  even  in  this  shielded 
eyrie,  so  Petit  Clef  concluded.  Moreover,  it  would 
be  diverting  to  tiptoe  into  the  kitchen  and  rouse 
Persis  to  frenzy  with  the  whimper  of  a  cat-bird 
or  a  locust's  clack.  He  drew  himself  together 
cautiously  and  was  about  to  scramble  down,  when 
the  click  of  the  gate-latch  flattened  him  tight  and 
silent  as  a  tree -toad,  against  the  limb.  It  was 
Rose  and  Sydney  Palmer.  Assuredly  they  had 
been  long  in  coming,  he  remarked,  with  a  grimace. 
The  moonlight  dazzled  from  Palmer's  epaulets;  it 
lit  to  diamond  sparkles  the  streaks  of  dew  on 
Rose's  black  hair. 

They  stopped  directly  beneath  the  cedar.  Petit 
Clef  beamed.  How  ravishing  it  would  be  to  let  go 
the  branch  suddenly  and  drop  plump  upon  the 


The  Closing  Door  413 

haughty  neck  of  H'sieu  le  Lieutenant !  But  Palm 
er's  first  words  stung  him  to  tingling  silence. 

— "So  Hotter  and  Sam  Riggs,  the  postmaster, 
planned  the  whole  scheme  without  telling  anybody 
else.  They  met  me  when  I  reached  the  boats  this 
afternoon,  and  laid  the  whole  thing  before  me. 
Courage?  Yes,  it  took  a  good  deal,  just  to  come 
to  me  and  own  up  to  their  plans.  They  had  every 
reason  to  expect  that  I'd  expose  them.  That 
would  have  meant  they'd  have  to  leave  the  country 
or  else  stand  trial  as  aiders  and  abettors.  That's 
good  as  a  penitentiary  sentence,  any  day.  Yes, 
they're  brave  enough,  if  they  are  Yankees. 

"We  couldn't  do  a  thing  if  it  wasn't  that  the 
jail  is  so  ridiculously  managed.  You  know  it's 
nothing  but  a  stone  warehouse,  to  begin  with, 
built  for  a  trading-post  away  back  in  Indian  times. 
Oh,  it's  strong,  but  that's  not  the  point.  According 
to  law,  Channing  and  Friend  Barclay  should  be  kept 
in  solitary  confinement  until  time  of  trial.  Instead 
of  that,  they  go  around  the  building  just  as  they 
please,  except  that  by  night  they  are  locked  in  the 
big  south  half,  where  the  furs  used  to  be  kept.  Of 
course,  this  is  just  what  the  men  tell  me,  and  they 
may  be  all  wrong  about  it.  We've  got  to  take  our 
chances. 

"  Riggs  and  Hotter  are  to  pretend  drunkenness. 
I  am  to  march  them  down  to  the  Point,  and  make 
a  great  bluster  to  the  deputy — you  know  the 
sheriff  is  away  this  week;  that's  another  point  our 


414  Diane 

way — and  pretend  that  they  are  employe's  of  mine, 
who  need  to  be  drawn  and  quartered  for  getting 
tipsy  on  Government  property.  Privately,  I'll 
tell  him  that  I  want  them  given  a  rousing  scare,  but 
no  imprisonment.  The  sheriff  himself  has  done 
little  favours  like  that  for  me  before,  and  the  deputy 
will  be  only  too  glad  to  show  his  authority.  He'll 
read  them  a  lecture  that  will  make  them  quake  in 
their  boots,  and  pack  them  off  into  the  south  half, 
to  sober  down  and  think  it  over.  There  are  no 
prisoners  at  the  Point  now  but  Channing  and  Friend 
Barclay.  As  to  the  guards,  they'll  lock  up  the 
building  and  then  go  out  on  the  old  parade-ground 
and  swap  yarns  and  smoke.  It's  their  regular 
programme.  All  but  Jim  Morrow.  He's  in  the 
scheme,  and  promises  to  hang  around,  ready  for 
orders." 

"  But  how  will  you  get  them  both  away  ? " 
"I'm  coming  to  that.  I'll  sit  and  talk  with  the 
deputy  for  half  an  hour,  maybe ;  that  will  give  them 
time  to  change  clothes  and  to  tell  our  men  what  to 
do.  Then  I'll  say  that  I  guess  my  fellows  have  had 
scare  enough,  and  the  deputy  will  send  Morrow  to 
unlock  the  doors,  simply  because  he's  right  at  hand. 
That's  where  the  real  risk  lies.  If  he  should  happen 
to  send  anybody  else,  or  if  Morrow  gets  chicken- 
hearted  and  sneaks  out — but  we've  got  to  take  the 
chances  on  that,  too.  As  for  the  deputy,  he's  blind 
as  a  bat  by  lamplight.  He'd  never  know  the  differ 
ence  if  I  brought  out  all  four  of  them. 


The  Closing:  Door  415 

"We're  to  walk  off  leisurely,  through  the  parade- 
ground,  down  to  the  river.  The  guards  will  see 
that  Morrow  is  along,  and  won't  notice  that  my 
men  have  grown  a  foot  or  two  since  I  took  them  in. 
Or,  if  they  do — they're  most  of  them  Black  Repub 
licans,  anyway.  The  Celandine  will  be  moored  at 
the  bend,  all  ready.  We'll  row  right  up  here. 
With  four  of  us  to  pull,  it  won't  take  long.  We'll 
go  straight  to  the  Phalanstery  and  hide  there  till 
we  hear  the  Mattie  Lee  whistle.  She's  due  at  this 
landing  a  little  after  midnight.  Then  we'll  go 
aboard  and  drop  off  one  by  one,  to  dodge  suspicion. 
Channing  at  Davenport,  Friend  Barclay  at  Fair 
Prairie,  and  Morrow  at  New  Boston,  probably. 
For  myself,  I  sent  in  my  resignation  to  the  Depart 
ment  to-day.  And  I'm  going  home,  to  raise  a 
company  to  go  out  and  fight  for  Kansas.  I've 
hung  back  long  enough.  Those  cursed  Free-Soilers 
may  think  they're  getting  a  foothold,  but  we'll 
show  them!" 

"So  you're  going  to  free  two  Abolitionists  to 
night,  and  then  go  out  to  fight  them  on  their  own 
ground!" 

"I  can't  help  it,  Rose."  His  boyish  voice  rang 
harsh  with  sullen  resolution.  "Look  at  that  old 
man,  old  enough  to  be  my  grandfather,  and  a 
gentleman,  every  inch  of  him — born  in  Virginia, 
too,  he  told  me.  Look  at  him,  dragged  into  prison 
like  a  common  thief,  just  because  he  rowed  a  poor 
devil  of  a  nigger  across  the  river !  Maybe  it  is  the 


416  Diane 

law  of  my  country;  but  it's  damned  unfair.  Then 
there's  Channing,  your  own  cousin.  I'd  think 
you'd  want  me  to  help  him  out,  because  he's  a 
relation  of  yours,  no  matter  how  you  may  despise 
him  for  this  underground  business." 

"I  do."     Rose's  voice  was  the  merest  whisper. 

"After  all  he's  done  for  me,  I'd  be  a  sneaking  cur 
if  I  couldn't  be  some  use  to  him  when  my  chance 
comes.  He  did  more  to  get  me  my  Annapolis 
appointment  than  all  the  rest  put  together,  and  he 
persuaded  the  Secretary  to  give  me  this  job,  and 
he  never  forgot  me,  even  when  he  resigned  himself. 
He  recommended  me  for  his  place,  and  that  was  as 
good  as  giving  me  my  promotion.  Your  father  told 


me  so." 


"  Sydney,  I'm  only  too  glad  you're  doing  this  for 
Bob.  You  don't  know — you  can't  know — how 
glad.  But  there's  some  one  else  to  be  reckoned 
with.  Diane." 

"Diane!"  He  breathed  the  little  name  like  a 
caress,  then  stepped  back,  flushing  high  in  the  moon 
light.  "Yes.  I  thought  of  her,  too.  But  he  must 
not  wait  to  see  her  now.  He'll  have  to  go  straight 
on,  if  he's  to  save  his  neck.  After  this  blows  over, 
he  can  come  back  here  to  see  her,  if  he  thinks  he  has 
to,  or  she — oh,  well,  it  makes  no  difference  what 
they  do,  when  to-night's  work  is  once  out  of  the 
way.  But  he  mustn't  risk  anything  now — even 
for  her. 

"She  doesn't  even  know  that  he  has  been  im- 


The  Gosmg;  Door  417 

prisoned,  and  there's  no  need  for  her  to  hear  of  it 
yet,"  he  went  on,  presently.  "If  you  want  to 
see  him,  take  Persis  and  go  on  up  to  the  Phalanstery, 
and  wait  for  us  there.  We've  told  Friend  Barclay's 
wife  about  it;  she  will  be  there,  too,  with  extra 
clothing  and  food  for  them.  No,  now,  Rose,  don't 
tell  Diane.  She " 

"She'd  want  to  go  with  him,  and  if  Channing 
sees  her — if  he  even  knows  she's  here  at  Madame's — 
we  can't  make  him  move  one  step  without  her.  I 
know  that,  Sydney.  But  wouldn't  it  be  better  for 
both  of  them — that  very  way?" 

"To  go  away  together,  you  mean?  Why,  it's 
impossible !  What  if  Channing  is  seized  ?  And 
how  do  you  know  that  she  cares  for  him — like 
that?"  Indomitably  generous  though  he  might  be, 
he  clutched  still  at  his  precious  shred  of  hope, 
childishly,  fiercely. 

"  Sydney,  haven't  you  heard  her  speak  his  name  ? 
Are  you  sc  blind  as  all  that?  Can't  you  see?'1 

Petit  Clef  shivered  and  tightened  his  hold  upon 
the  branch.  The  rustle  of  snapping  twigs  broke 
the  grim  pause  which  followed  on  Rose's  words. 

"I'm  going  back  now,  Rose,"  said  Palmer, 
turning  abruptly  away.  "It's  time  I  met  the  men. 
Eight  was  the  hour,  and  it's  nearly  that  now. 
It's  beginning  to  cloud  over;  that's  lucky  for  us. 
You  go  on  to  the  Phalanstery  or  not,  just  as  you 
please.  You  are  going?  All  right,  then.  Good 
bye." 


4i  8  Diane 

The  door  closed  behind  Rose  as  he  strode  away 
down  the  hill. 

Petit  Clef  pulled  his  collar  up  about  his  ears  and 
crouched  motionless  upon  his  branch.  Rose  had 
gone  to  summon  Persis,  so  he  wisely  conjectured. 
He  would  wait  until  the  two  were  safely  out  of  the 
way ;  then  he  himself  would  take  a  hand  in  affairs. 
To  be  sure,  it  was  growing  infamously  cold ;  but  the 
evening  promised  excitements  which  would  warm 
him  to  the  marrow. 

There  was  a  flurry  of  whispers  and  a  sound  of 
quick  footsteps  within.  Presently  two  muffled 
figures  crept  from  the  house  and  hurried  up  the 
Commune  road.  Petit  Clef  nodded,  acquiescent. 
"The  broad  rocking  vessel,  that  will  be  my  Persis, 
hastening  before  the  storm, "  he  remarked  to  his 
flute.  "The  sailboat,  she  so  light  and  so  trim — 
ah,  my  poor  Mademoiselle  the  Rose !" 

He  slid  to  the  ground  and  rubbed  his  stiffened 
knees.  Diane,  still  bowed  in  silence  at  Madame's 
pillow,  sprang  to  her  feet  and  hurried  out  at  the 
first  quaver  of  his  bob-white  cry.  Her  dread  for 
Madame's  awakening  flashed  in  her  wide  eyes, 
thrilled  in  her  warning  whisper. 

"Oh,  quiet,  Petit  Clef!  She  sleeps.  Do  not 
disturb  her!" 

"  So  ?  That  is  very  well,  then.  She  will  not  miss 
you,  and  Persis  will  return  before  she  stands  in  need 
of  anything.  Come,  Mademoiselle.  We  go  to  see 
the  Captain  Channing." 


The  Closing  Door  419 

"The  Capitaine  Charming!" 

" Assuredly,  Mademoiselle.  Why  not?  In  the 
days  past  he  has  come  often  to  make  his  devoirs 
unto  us ;  to  visit  him,  that  is  the  least  that  we  can 
do,  now  that  he  lies  in  prison  and  in  shame." 

"In  prison!" 

"Truly,  yes,  Mademoiselle.  Is  it  that  you  have 
no  words  of  your  own,  that  you  must  borrow  mine  ? 
And  how  you  shiver!  Is  it  the  dew  upon  your 
sleeves  of  lace?  Perhaps  it  is  better  that  we  do 
not  attempt  to  go." 

"  Petit  Clef,  I  implore  you  that  you  do  not  torture 
me.  Have  mercy  and  tell  me,  I  who  know  nothing  of 
all  this.  What  has  happened?  Where  is  the 
Capitaine  Channing?" 

"The  Capitaine  Channing  is  held  prisoner  this 
fortnight,  at  the  Point,  for  this  sin  most  heinous, 
that  he  has  aided  a  slave  to  go  free.  M'sieu  I1  Ami 
Barclay  abides  there  with  him,  also.  M'sieu  Palmer 
is  but  this  moment  gone,  to  take  them  by  ruse  from 
the  jail  and  to  bring  them  up  the  river  in  the  Celan 
dine.  They  will  hide  in  the  Phalanstery,  until 
the  coming  of  the  great  boat  of  steam.  Then  they 
will  depart  each  for  another  place  of  hiding.  Also 
must  M'sieu  Palmer  flee  with  them;  for  he  is 
now  criminal  of  the  basest,  in  that  he  has  rescued 
his  friend  and  broken  this  most  reverend  law.  A 
land  indeed  amusing,  this  brave  America,  where 
honour  makes  itself  a  reproach,  and  he  who  is  just 
shall  be  called  traitor.  Voila  this  land  of  the  free  ! " 


420  Diane 

"Come,  Petit  Clef." 

" '  Come  ? '     Where  do  we  go,  then,  Mademoiselle  ? " 

"To  meet  the  Capitaine  Channing." 

"Ah,  la!"  Petit  Clef  snapped  his  fingers  at  the 
moon.  "But  that  is  impossible,  Mademoiselle. 
One  cannot  think  of  it.  For  truth,  we  might  go  to 
the  Phalanstery,  and  await " 

"But  he  might  not  go  there.  The  steamer  may 
arrive  much  earlier  than  they  think.  One  can 
never  be  assured.  We  will  meet  him  at  the  Point 
instead." 

"But,  Diane,  the  rapids!" 

"The  rapids !    Who  dreads  the  rapids?" 

"But  we  must  cross  them  if  we  will  reach  the 
channel  that  their  boat  must  take.  Even  then  we 
might  miss  them  in  the  fog.  Behold,  it  rises  already, 
all  murky -white.  Can  you  not  see,  how  it  clouds 
all  the  river?  And  then  the  danger  of  rocks,  the 
rough  current,  the  cold — ah,  when  the  fog  rises,  it 
pierces  to  the  bone,  even  as  seared  that  shirt  of 
magic  woven  for  the  poor  M'sieu  Hercules.  No, 
no!  Let  it  go!" 

"Come,  or  I  go  alone." 

"Behold,  how  I  am  powerless  to  convince!" 
Petit  Clef  flung  his  hands  abroad  in  eloquent 
despair.  His  eyes  snapped  with  triumph.  "  We  go, 
then.  Toni's  old  skiff  lies  at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
Diane.  You  can  row,  which  is  fortunate.  Myself, 
I  have  of  skill  with  the  rudder.  Wind  your  shawl 
about  you,  so,  that  it  may  shield  that  naked  throat. 


The  Closing  Door  421 

And  your  long  cloak,  my  Diane !    Go  on,  I  hasten  to 
fetch  it." 

She  was  already  speeding  down  the  hill,  an  airy 
wraith  in  the  moonlight,  when  he  limped  from  the 
house,  dragging  the  long,  red  cloak.  As  she  stooped 
for  him  to  throw  it  around  her,  he  caught  her 
tightly  about  the  neck.  His  cheek  touched  hers, 
cool  as  wind-tossed  apple-blossom. 

"Mademoiselle!"  There  piped  no  mischief  now 
in  that  sweet  child -voice.  "Will  you  not  kiss  me 
adieu?  Have  you  no  good-bye  for  your  comrade, 
my  Diane?" 

Surely  he  spoke  truth.  For  this  would  be  good 
bye  !  She  trembled,  stricken  by  vague  terrors.  The 
world  seemed  to  totter,  to  rend  beneath  her  feet. 
The  coming  years  loomed  as  strange  phantoms, 
inexplicable,  daunting.  Behind  her  lay  her  girl 
hood,  sad  and  strange  and  dear.  Before  her  opened 
what  unfathomable  deeps !  Ah,  the  pity  of  it ! 
The  pity  of  his  sad,  prescient  farewell ! 

She  knelt  and  clasped  his  tiny  body  as  she  had 
taken  him  to  her  heart  long  months  before.  Child 
and  maiden  kissed  each  other  in  silence,  with  full 
hearts.  It  was  as  though  they  turned  away  together, 
hand  in  hand,  from  the  House  of  their  old  life,  and 
closed  the  door. 

Toni's  skiff  rocked  at  its  mooring  beneath  a 
clump  of  willow.  Petit  Clef  groped  for  the  bow 
line  and  held  it  ashore  while  she  crept  in,  feeling 
her  way  to  the  rower's  seat  with  cautious  steps. 


422  Diane 

As  he  scrambled  aboard,  the  boat  slid  off  into  deep 
water,  quietly  as  a  drifting  swan.  The  mists 
streamed  up  and  rolled  upon  them  in  billowy 
translucence,  thick  and  cold  and  soft  as  down,  shot 
through  and  through  with  thrusts  of  arrowy  light. 
The  water  purred  beneath  the  bow;  now  and  then 
a  gust  of  wind  rent  the  endless  sheet  of  fog  into 
smoke  and  shreds,  revealing  broad  glistening  patches, 
now  barred  like  a  pigeon's  breast  with  weird  moon 
lighted  radiances,  now  waved  and  gleaming,  a 
palace  floor,  inlaid  with  mother  of  pearl.  It  was 
as  though  they  rowed  through  the  heart  of  a  vast 
opal — a  world  enchanted  where  sound  was  not  and 
vision  grew  but  dull,  but  where  touch  and  the 
feeling  of  colour,  like  the  pulse  of  far-away  music, 
more  than  fulfilled  the  work  of  the  nobler  senses, 
now  stunned  and  dim. 

And  ever  nearer  quavered  the  soft,  swift  flow  of 
the  rapids,  that  throbbing,  noiseless  menace:  that 
whisper  of  deadly  charm. 


CHAPTER  XXV 
THE  RENDING  OF  THE  VEIL 

"COME,  now,  Robert.  Thee  must  bestir  thyself. 
No  time  to  lose." 

Friend  Barclay  stood  at  his  elbow,  but  his  voice 
sounded  from  illimitable  distances  to  Channing's 
heavy  brain.  He  turned  himself  awkwardly  from 
the  high-barred  window.  Slow  embarrassment 
flushed  his  gaunt,  tired  face. 

"Bright  as  the  moon  is,  I  can't  make  out  the 
river  at  all,  on  account  of  this  miserable  fog,"  he 
said,  uncertainly.  He  clasped  both  hands  over 
the  bruise  which  still  marked  his  fall  on  the  day 
of  his  arrest,  a  fortnight  since.  "Between  my 
broken  head  and  my  stiff  knee,  I  haven't  sense 
enough  to  know  when  I'm  beat.  Do  you  suppose 
we'll  ever  hear  from  that  remonstrance  of  ours, 
Friend  Barclay?  Or  are  we  to  rot  here  till  the 
Bill  is  repealed?" 

"  Be  quiet,  Robert.     Don't  thee  know  these  men  ?  " 

Channing  brushed  his  hand  over  his  eyes  as  though 
to  clear  away  the  film  of  pain  and  torpor  that 
dimmed  them.  "  Hotter !  And  Sam  Riggs !  What 
on  earth?"  he  cried.  The  sight  of  those  familiar 
faces  roused  him  from  his  lethargy  like  a  blow. 

423 


424  Diane 

"Whatever  are  you  doing  here?  I  thought  you 
were  sharp  enough  to  dodge  the  trap." 

Hotter  explained,  in  stumbling  whispers.  Chan- 
ning  heard  him  through  without  a  word.  Much 
of  the  explanation  was  lost  on  his  numbed  wits; 
but  the  hint  of  freedom  kindled  tumult  through 
his  veins 

He  put  on  the  jeans  and  the  cowhide  boots 
which  Riggs  stripped  off  and  flung  to  him  in  docile 
silence.  Friend  Barclay  and  Hotter  were  com 
pleting  a  like  exchange  at  the  other  end  of  the  room. 
Their  feverish  chuckles,  when  Friend  Barclay  burst 
one  sleeve  of  Hotter 's  coat,  in  a  frantic  effort  to 
force  it  on,  and  stood  forth  at  last,  packed  tight  and 
gasping,  into  a  suit  which  made  him  look  the  corpu 
lent  scarecrow,  seemed  meet  and  sane.  Why 
should  they  not  laugh,  although  they  stood  beneath 
the  outspread  hand  of  ruin  ?  It  was  all  a  joke,  surely. 
There  could  be  no  rescue  for  them,  the  men  who  had 
defied  the  nation.  Everything  stood  against  them. 
The  one  had  carried  on  his  law-breaking  deliberately 
since  early  manhood,  in  the  face  of  uncounted 
warnings.  The  other  had  broken  statutes  which 
he  had  sworn  upon  life  and  honour  to  maintain.  It 
was  only  a  joke,  and  a  poor  one,  at  best.  However 
— could  that  click  be  the  rasp  of  a  turning  key  ? 

He  limped  forward,  quivering  with  eagerness. 
Then  he  drew  back;  his  face  grew  dark  with  angry 
disappointment.  Behind  the  guard's  square  bulk 
crowded  Sydney  Palmer,  bright  in  his  mocking 


The  Rending  of  the  Veil  425 

uniform,  bending  his  head  to  peer  over  Morrow's 
shoulder. 

" Come,"  he  said,  roughly.  He  caught  Channing's 
hand  in  a  hard  grip.  "No  time  to  lose,  Captain. 
Ready,  Friend  Barclay?" 

Channing  wrung  his  hand  away.  "Why  should 
we  come  ? "  he  retorted ,  in  his  half -delirium .  ' '  We  're 
not  your  prisoners,  Palmer.  It's  not  time  for  a 
court-martial." 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean,  Channing?  I'm 
here  to  take  you  out.  Didn't  they  tell — Oh!" 
Palmer  caught  a  full  sight  of  his  worn,  altered  face. 
Resentment  died  within  him. 

"  Come  along,  old  man.  You're  sick.  You  don't 
understand.  We've  fixed  it  up,  all  right.  Just  you 
come  with  me." 

"Then  you've  bolted  the  service,  too  !" 

Palmer's  fists  clenched.  An  ugly  red  surged  to 
his  forehead.  "Yes,  I've  done  just  that,"  he 
stammered,  hoarsely.  "I'm  a  dirty  traitor,  like 
all  the  rest  of  you,  I'll  be  drummed  out  of  the 
service  in  a  week.  But  you  needn't  be  afraid  to 
shake  hands.  It's  not  you  I'm  cheating.  And 


come  on." 


"But  you  men,"  Channing  turned  stupidly  to 
Riggs  and  Hotter.  "  You  can't  stay  here  !  You'll 
be  held  for  accomplices  !  You " 

"We  ain't  a'goin'  ter  stay  no  time,"  replied 
Hotter,  with  a  grin.  "When  that  there  green 
deputy  finds  out  how  he's  been  fooled,  d'ye  suppose 


426  Diane 

he's  goin'  ter  keep  us  here  ter  prove  it  ?  Not  more 
nor  long  'nough  ter  have  the  screws  taken  outer 
these  here  bars,  so's  we  kin  drop  through  'thout 
disturbin'  him.  Go  on,  now,  an*  hold  yer  tongue. 
Good  luck!" 

Palmer  grasped  him  by  the  arm ;  supported  by  his 
hard  grip,  Channing  stumbled  down  the  long, 
echoing  corridor.  No  need  for  him  to  feign  drunken 
ness  !  His  limbs  tottered  for  weakness ;  the  high 
lamps  circled  in  wheels  of  light  before  his  dizzy 
eyes. 

They  strolled  with  ostentatious  leisure  across 
the  parade-ground,  and  down  the  bank.  Channing 
ground  his  heel  into  the  yielding  turf ;  the  feel  of  it, 
after  the  gritty  prison-floor,  the  wash  of  the  mist  in 
his  face,  the  tang  of  the  sweet,  cold  air,  swept  over 
him  in  a  wave  of  fearful  joy.  This  was  Freedom, 
indeed  !  But  how  soon  might  it  vanish  ! 

Palmer  helped  him  into  the  Celandine,  and  turned 
to  give  Friend  Barclay  a  hand.  "Listen!"  he 
cried,  and  stopped  short,  appalled.  Three  shots 
rang  in  quick  succession  from  the  Point. 

"  It  may  be  somebody  hunting,  beyond  the  town," 
said  Friend  Barclay. 

"It's  somebody  hunting — for  us,"  snapped  Mor 
row.  The  misery  of  the  man  torn  between  con 
science  and  duty  grated  in  his  voice.  His  face  grew 
pinched,  his  mouth  shut  hard.  "  If  they  make  out 
a  boat  with  all  four  of  us  aboard  her,  they'll  have 
us  in  an  hour,  Mr.  Palmer.  Push  her  off  with 


The  Rending:  of  the  Veil  427 

Captain  Channing,  so  long  as  he's  lame.  The  rest 
of  us  can  swim  for  it." 

Friend  Barclay  had  already  stripped  off  his 
coat.  Channing  staggered  to  his  feet  in  an  agony 
of  protest,  but  Palmer  caught  the  bow  and  sent  the 
skiff  careening  into  mid-channel. 

"The  Phalanstery,  mind,  Channing,  quick!" 
he  called  low  through  a  trumpet  of  his  hands. 

Before  Channing  could  reach  the  oars,  the  night 
had  drawn  its  smother  of  mist  between  them.  The 
low  bank  and  the  hurrying  group  melted  from  his 
sight.  He  drifted  alone,  swathed  in  the  blanket  of 
the  fog,  bewildered  as  though  he  floated  upon  a 
shoreless  sea. 

Then,  as  a  blown  flame  quivers  back  to  quiet, 
calm  reason  declared  itself  once  more.  The  craft 
of  the  river,  that  subtlest  art,  awoke  with  the  stoop 
of  his  chest  to  the  oar,  the  creak  of  the  rowlocks. 
He  must  be  within  three  miles  of  the  Commune,  by 
river  calculation.  He  could  make  it  in  an  hour, 
unless  he  waited  for  the  others,  and  that  would  be 
little  use.  In  this  fog,  they  could  never  see  the 
Celandine,  even  although  they  swam  within  a  boat- 
length  of  her;  and  he  dared  not  call.  More  than 
likely,  they  would  swim  up-stream  for  some  rods, 
to  cast  the  trail,  then  climb  ashore  and  walk  up  the 
beach  till  they  were  opposite  the  Commune,  before 
attempting  to  cross  over.  At  best,  this  was  a 
treacherous  strip  of  water,  even  for  an  expert 
swimmer.  The  scattered  boulders  of  the  rapids 


428  Diane 

forced  one  to  wade  and  flounder  by  turns,  while 
quicksands  made  the  Illinois  channel  a  terror. 
Decidedly,  he  must  not  try  to  wait. 

He  stooped  to  the  oars;  the  Celandine  shot  for 
ward  beneath  his  stroke,  docile  as  Winnie  beneath 
his  urging  hand.  A  dash  of  icy  water  struck  his 
cheek  as  the  oar  descended;  he  laughed  out  in 
sudden  ecstasy.  Power  awoke  within  him  with 
each  sweep  of  his  long-idle  arms.  The  joy  of 
returning  strength,  the  glory  of  his  freedom,  stormed 
through  him  like  thunderous  music.  The  clock  of 
Opportunity  had  struck  for  him  once  more.  The 
golden  hour  was  his,  to  win  or  to  lose. 

The  water  hissed  against  the  boat ;  the  mist  grew 
thicker,  a  fine  suspended  rain.  He  must  be  nearing 
the  rapids ;  that  sixth  sense  which  the  river  training 
had  bred  in  him  felt  the  nearness  of  rock  and  eddy 
before  the  ear  could  detect  their  lisping  call.  He 
sounded  cautiously,  then  made  his  way  forward 
more  slowly,  with  oars  scarce  dipping. 

A  sudden  flaw  of  wind  tore  the  mist  asunder,  like 
a  slit  curtain;  through  the  wide  rent,  he  saw  the 
arch  of  the  Illinois  shore,  crested  in  stark  trees,  the 
moon  hung  high  in  their  tangled  branches,  as  though 
he  peered  at  a  waiting  stage,  set  for  its  players.  A 
moment,  and  the  mists  rolled  thick  again;  but  the 
view  had  given  him  his  bearings.  This  was  the 
old  mooring-place  for  the  Government  fleet,  now  at 
anchor  a  mile  below.  Here  he  had  worked  with 
Palmer,  through  that  unforgettable  spring.  Up 


The  Rending  of  the  Veil  429 

that  rough  hillside  he  had  piloted  more  than  one 
dark,  panting  fugitive  past  the  bare  hills  to  shadow 
ing  woods  and  safety.  Here  he  had  spoken  with 
the  Major,  that  last  terrible  morning.  And  here, 
on  an  earlier,  fairer  day,  he  had  brought  her,  brave 
in  her  violet  gown,  lovely  as  the  sky  that  shone  to 
honour  her — his  Diane. 

He  picked  his  way  on  up  the  channel,  his  eyes 
aflash,  his  body  tense  as  steel.  They  might  suppose, 
Palmer  and  the  rest,  that  he  would  slink  away 
meekly  to  Canada,  now  that  the  chance  had  been 
given  him;  they  would  find  themselves  vastly  mis 
taken.  He  would  meet  them  at  the  Phalanstery, 
as  they  had  directed,  but  only  to  say  good-bye. 
There  would  be  a  steamer  down  the  river  by  early 
morning.  He  would  board  it  and  go  on  to  St. 
Louis,  thence  to  the  Convent.  This  time,  he 
should  not  fail.  Neither  coldness  nor  protests  should 
drive  him  away  till  he  had  won.  Diane  should 
yield  to  him  —  to  her  own  heart.  He  would 
carry  her  back  with  him  to  the  far,  tiny  home  that 
he  had  built  for  her,  in  love  and  hope  and  dread. 
There  they  would  be  safe ;  the  slow  law  would  trip 
many  times  over  the  mesh  of  Territory  jurisdiction 
before  it  could  reach  a  case  like  his.  Its  vengeance 
would  not  be  urged ;  the  deputy's  disgrace  would  be 
a  shield. 

This  was  the  best,  the  only  way.  The  scheme 
had  its  dangers,  yet  in  its  very  daring  lay  a  measure 
of  safety.  Once  away  from  the  Convent  with  Diane, 


43°  Diane 

they  could  join  one  of  the  provision  trains  which 
still  laboured  up  the  northwest  trails  from  St. 
Louis,  and  ride  under  its  protection  till  they  reached 
the  Kansas  boundary.  It  would  be  a  hard  journey 
for  her,  he  thought,  with  an  ache  of  regret.  But 
so  it  must  be.  He  dared  not  leave  her  behind.  In 
the  tenderness  which  would  encompass  her,  in  the 
gentle  ministrations  which  would  gild  her  days, 
lay  his  bitterest  dread. 

Then  the  old  fear  of  her  indifference  rose  at  him, 
a  gibing  torment.  He  thrust  it  down.  He  would 
not  force  her  love.  He  would  not  urge  her  sacrifice. 
But  she  must  care.  She  had  always  cared.  She 
had  waited  all  her  short  days  for  him,  as  he  had 
waited  and  searched  and  hoped  for  her.  Only — she 
had  not  known.  Now  she  should  see  the  truth, 
face  to  face — and  she  would  know. 

How  she  had  feared  the  rapids !  He  groped  now 
through  their  seething  maze,  guiding  the  Celandine 
deftly,  with  touches  light  as  the  sweeps  of  a  brush 
on  canvas.  The  water  boiled  and  gurgled,  slapping 
little  jets  of  spray  above  the  bow ;  but  the  Celandine 
slid  past  rock  and  eddy  without  a  jar.  He  remem 
bered  how  she  had  turned  to  him,  her  lips  stiff  with 
fear,  when  the  blast  ordered  for  her  salute  had  torn 
the  water  from  the  channel,  and  shown  the  jagged 
crust  beneath.  She  had  had  to  steady  herself  against 
his  arm  while  she  spoke  her  graces  to  the  Major. 
Strange  that  her  high,  brave  spirit  should  flinch 
before  so  trivial  a  danger ! 


The  Rending:  of  the  Veil  43  * 

He  smiled,  gravely  tender.  She  had  turned  to 
him  in  her  need,  and  that  was  well.  She  should 
turn  to  him  now,  for  shielding,  forever.  And  never 
should  she  find  him  unheeding,  no  matter  how 
whimsical  were  her  fears.  If  she  were  with  him 
now,  kneeling  at  his  side,  her  face  uplifted,  all  moon 
lit  through  the  mist,  lovelier  far  than  her  pale  goddess 
name !  He  whispered  it  once  more — his  litany 
through  these  dark  waiting  days.  "  Diane ! 
Diane!" 

The  wind  veered  to  the  north  again  with  a  sweep 
that  left  the  willows  twittering.  The  mist  rolled 
back  in  billows  of  murky  white;  through  the  torn 
palpitating  rift,  he  looked  straight  down  the 
vista  of  racing  water,  dappled  with  patches 
of  foam,  which  marked  the  course  of  the 
rapids.  Fog  arched  and  walled  it;  yet  the 
path  of  the  rock  flashed  broad  on  the  sight,  as 
clear  as  dawn. 

And  midway  on  this  luminous  path  there  rose  a 
dream.  A  reeling  skiff,  caught  high  on  a  tusk  of 
rock;  the  glint  of  a  scarlet  cloak,  the  shine  of  a 
child's  fair  head — the  stoop  and  sway  of  a  frail 
body,  wrung  in  its  brave  struggle  to  stand  against 
the  fury  of  the  surge. 

Charming  drove  his  oars  to  the  hilt.  The  Celan 
dine  shot  back  into  the  boiling  pool.  Rasped  and 
buffeted,  shipping  water  at  every  plunge,  she  fought 
her  way  on  down  the  gorge.  He  did  not  try  to  call. 
He  did  not  dare  to  pray.  His  dry  lips  could  not 


43 2  Diane 

move  to  form  the  one  word  that  his  heart  beat  out : 
"Diane!" 

The  Celandine  shuddered  past  the  Turtle  with  a 
rasp  and  a  groan.  The  eddy  below  threw  her  like 
a  chip  against  the  Hilt,  where  she  hung,  toppling 
then  pitched  into  the  race  with  a  shriek  of  tearing 
plank:  a  gush  of  water  seethed  through  her  burst 
side. 

Channing  ground  his  teeth.  Diane  stood  not 
twenty  yards  away,  sharp  in  the  moonlight,  thrust 
ing  with  all  her  feeble  might,  to  push  the  skiff  off 
Turk's  Head,  on  which  it  hung  sideways,  half- 
submerged.  Petit  Clef  was  bailing  manfully.  By 
a  miracle  they  might  keep  afloat  for  another  minute, 
and  then 

The  Celandine  staggered  through  the  whirlpool, 
wounded  to  her  death,  but  toiling  on  like  a  noble 
breathing  creature  in  the  face  of  her  doom.  The 
water  sucked  across  Channing's  feet.  He  flung  off  his 
coat  and  braced  himself  for  the  plunge.  It  came 
sooner  than  he  expected. 

Driven  by  one  last  fling  of  the  oars,  the  Celandine 
lurched  to  the  edge  of  the  whirlpool,  then  heeled  and 
sank  without  a  ripple.  As  she  tilted,  he  leaped 
clear,  and  struck  out. 

The  eddy  snatched  him  by  the  heels  and  whirled 
him  round  and  round  like  a  drifting  plank.  Tossed 
and  beaten,  he  floundered  loose  from  its  binding 
circle,  and  threw  himself  into  the  channel.  It  was 
no  use  to  try  to  swim.  The  current  pitched  him 


The  Rending  of  the  Veil  433 

on  from  boulder  to  boulder  at  race-horse  speed. 
For  a  moment  his  feet  touched  bottom.  He  stood 
up,  clasped  to  the  knee  in  rushing  water;  his  next 
step  carried  him  into  a  bottomless  swirl.  Now 
wading,  now  floating,  blinded  and  deafened  in  the 
spray,  he  reached  the  eddy  above  Turk's  Head. 

"Diane!  Stop  pushing.  Wait  till  I  call,  then 
shove  to  the  right  as  hard  as  you  can.  Do  you 
hear?" 

"I  hear,  M'sieu."  In  her  supreme  excitement, 
this  voice  from  the  depths  of  the  rapids  brought  no 
surprise. 

If  there  was  yet  time !  Channing  swam  and 
floundered  on,  bruised  and  gasping.  A  red  mist 
slid  before  his  eyes;  his  heart  knocked,  echoing  loud. 

Below  Turk's  Head  lay  a  tossing  reach  of  shallow 
water.  Midway  its  course,  his  feet  touched  flat 
rock  again.  He  trod  water,  rocking  from  side  to 
side,  breast-deep. 

"Now,  Diane!" 

She  crouched  in  the  stern  and  thrust  to  the 
right  with  all  her  tense  strength.  The  boat  slid 
free  with  a  sickening  lunge.  As  it  pitched  down 
the  gorge  toward  him,  he  caught  at  the  stern  and 
was  jerked  on  down-stream. 

The  water  shut  over  his  head  again  and  again ;  the 
tow  dragged  his  arms  till  his  fingers  were  near  to 
breaking.  Twice  he  was  thrown  against  the  side 
with  a  force  that  turned  him  numb  and  faint.  But 
he  kept  his  hold. 


434  Diane 

The  growl  of  the  rapids  sank  to  a  throbbing  moan. 
They  were  still  in  rough  water,  but  the  jagged  rock 
was  well  behind. 

"Pull  for  the  Illinois  shore,  Diane.  Petit  Clef, 
you  bail  for  all  you're  worth.  We'll  make  it,  all 
right." 

They  obeyed  without  reply.  The  mist  was  clos 
ing  down  upon  them,  a  dim  canopy,  as  soft  as  a 
gray  moth  plume.  It  threaded  her  crimson  cloak 
with  diamond  arabesque;  it  glistened  in  dewy 
coronal  on  the  boy's  fair,  shining  head. 

The  skiff  grated  on  the  eastern  beach.  Channing 
waded  ashore,  and  dragged  it  high  and  dry,  then 
lifted  out  the  child. 

Petit  Clef  rubbed  a  velvet  cheek  against  his  own. 
"This  is  my  fault,  M'sieu,  enticement,  for  I  have 
chosen  the  place  where  we  shall  cross  the  channel. 
You  are  arrived  on  the  moment  precise,  mon  Saint 
George.  Myself,  I  commend  you!" 

He  put  him  down  and  turned  back  for  Diane.     In 
the  pale  light  she  waited,  white,  silent,  downcast. 
He  lifted  her  ashore,  then  stood  and  looked  at  her, 
mute.     For  his  life,  he  could  not  speak,  nor  move 
to  touch  her  locked,  soft  hands. 

Beneath  his  gaze,  her  pale  face  lifted,  with 
flicker  of  pitiful  lashes,  with  quiver  of  pleading 
mouth.  As  though  his  motionless  lips  implored 
her,  her  hands  unclasped,  then  dropped  at  her  side 
in  irresistible  surrender.  Her  lashes  pointed  dark 
with  tears. 


The  Rending  of  the  Veil  435 

"Is  it  that  I  am  forgiven,  M'sieu?" 

He  went  to  her  slowly,  as  though  he  feared  to 
break  the  crystal  of  the  miracle.  She  did  not  turn 
from  him.  Only  her  fingers  shut  again,  and  to  her 
temples  stormed  the  red  of  her  sweet  maiden  shame. 
He  felt  her  trembling  whisper  against  his  heart. 

"Therefore,  am  I  forgiven,  M'sieu — mon  Capi- 
taine?" 


"We  will  go  back  to  Madame,  my  Diane,  and 
bid  them  all  good-bye.  My  darling,  do  you  dare 
to  think  I  would  leave  you  behind?" 

"  But  for  you  the  danger,  my  Robert ! " 

Channing  caught  her  closer,  in  the  joy  of  his 
name  on  her  shy  lips.  "Danger,  child?  Who 
cares?  Friend  Barclay  shall  marry  us,  just  as  he 
married  Heinrich  and  Minna,  last  summer.  The 
Mattie  Lee  touches  here  before  daybreak ;  we  will  go 
down  to  St.  Louis  on  her,  then  we  will  find  another 
steamer  there,  and  go  up  to  our  own  home  in  the 
prairies,  Diane.  Think,  dear!  Say  it.  Our  own!" 

Diane's  lips  puckered  valiantly ;  but  the  hard -won 
syllables  were  lost  to  hearing. 

"But,  Petit  Clef,  my  beloved!     Where  is  he?" 

"Petit  Clef,  to  be  sure!  I  had  forgotten  that  he 
came  with  you."  Channing  whistled  the  Bob-white. 
A  softer  trill  answered  him  from  the  slope  above. 

"  I  make  my  devoirs  to  the  other  Diane,"  drawled 
the  child,  with  a  flourish  of  his  pipe,  as  Channing 
tossed  him  to  his  shoulder,  "My  lady  the  moon 


43  6  Diane 

may  not  be  responsive,  but  she  does  me  the  grace 
to  remain  in  clear  view.  Come,  Mademoiselle. 
Once  before  we  have  climbed  this  hill,  you  in  your 
dress  of  purple,  M'sieu  brave  in  his  uniform,  with 
the  epaulets  aflash  upon  his  shoulder.  Myself,  I 
was  most  splendid  of  all,  in  the  new  suit  of  velvet, 
which  Th6rese  has  made  for  me.  Do  you  remember  ? 
The  little  moon  peeped  out  at  us,  so  shy !  It  was 
that  she  feared  to  look  upon  our  glory  and  be 
dazzled,  not  so?  And  the  apple-trees  saluted  us, 
casting  their  petals  that  we  might  walk  thereon, 
as  we  went  by.  Behold  us  now,  vagabonds! 
You  in  your  torn  finery,  M'sieu  soaked  as  any  scare 
crow!  The  little  moon  need  not  hide  her  eyes  for 
blinding  now.  Verily,  times  are  changed." 

Channing  felt  her  fingers  curl  tighter  in  his  own. 
Verily,  times  were  changed. 

Madame  lay  high  on  her  pillows,  awaiting  them, 
assured  in  the  foreword  of  her  mother-heart.  She 
drew  Diane  home  to  her  arms;  she  put  out  her 
free  hand  for  Channing's  eager  grasp.  Ethereal 
mischief  sparkled  through  the  benediction  in  her 
gaze. 

"My  boy,"  she  said,  softly,  "you've  fought  a 
good  fight.  But  do  you  think  that  you  can  fill  all 
the  parts  that  you  have  assumed?  Can  you  be  a 
Commune  and  a  Sisterhood,  and  a  husband,  too?" 

Persis  fled  to  the  Phalanstery,  to  summon  Rose, 
who  waited  with  the  three  already  there.  One  by 
one,  to  avoid  all  risk  of  notice,  even  in  these  hollow 


The  Rending  of  the  Veil  437 

fields,  they  stole  back  to  the  house.  Rose,  white 
and  grave;  Morrow  and  Palmer,  sullen  and  tense 
beneath  the  strain;  Friend  Barclay,  serene  as 
though  he  trod  the  autumn  hills  to  First  Day 
Meeting,  and  much  disposed  to  chaff  the  younger 
men  for  their  fears. 

"When  thee's  broken  jail  three  times  in  one 
year,  as  I've  done  since  January,  thy  knees  won't 
turn  so  weak  at  every  snapping  twig,  Sydney/'  he 
said.  "And  as  for  thee,  James,  if  thy  conscience 
pains  thee  so,  thee'd  better  hasten  to  the  Point, 
and  tell  the  guards  where  to  look  for  us.  I 
take  no  pleasure  in  my  freedom  if  it  wounds  thy 
better  self." 

He  listened  smiling  to  Channing's  breathless 
demand.  "It's  fortunate  for  thee  two  children 
that  I  stretched  my  membership  till  it  cracked,  to 
let  myself  accept  this  office.  So  thee  wants  my 
advice  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  thee's  made  thy  plans 
pretty  fully  without  it.  Leave  decision  to  Felicia 
Manderson.  She  is  wise;  her  judgment  should 
suffice." 

Petit  Clef  stood  at  Diane's  side,  and  clutched  her 
wrist  tightly  through  the  short,  quiet  ceremony. 
Her  free  hand  held  the  thirty-seven  precious  violets, 
those  eight  bouquets  of  honour,  which  he  had 
snatched  from  their  vases,  and  crowded  into  her 
grasp  at  the  last  moment ;  but  he  saw,  with  jealous 
wonder,  that  her  fingers  released  the  flowers  to 
twine  about  her  chain  of  dull  gold  beads  instead. 


438  Diane 

Truly  the  beads  were  an  heirloom,  as  all  might 
know;  but  what  were  the  leavings  of  the  dead 
beside  the  gifts  of  the  living? 

The  minutes  sped  on  winged  feet.  But  another 
hour,  and  Rose  and  Diane,  hand  clasped  in  hand, 
climbed  down  the  shadowy  hills  once  more  to  the 
steamer-landing.  The  men  followed  close  behind, 
with  Petit  Clef  balanced  by  turns,  first  on  one 
shoulder,  then  on  another.  Exhaustion  lit  strange 
fires  in  his  brown  eyes ;  his  cheeks  were  hotly  crimson. 
But  he  had  rebelled  so  passionately  at  the  thought 
of  being  left  behind  that  both  Diane  and  Rose  had 
interceded  for  his  wish. 

"  The  world  goes  too  fast,"  he  lamented  to  Palmer, 
as  the  lights  of  the  Mattie  Lee  flared  spectral  through 
the  mist.  "One  little  hour  ago  was  M'sieu  le 
Capitaine  prisoner,  mis6rable.  Behold  him  now, 
elegant,  arrayed  in  the  fine  clothing  of  M'sieu 
Palmer,  bridegroom,  envied  of  all !  Regard  also 
my  Diane,  who  was  but  a  day  since  so  fatigued  and 
so  triste.  Look  at  her  eyes  of  light,  her  step  of  the 
crowned  queen.  Always  with  them,  with  these 
others,  does  the  world  move.  Why  does  it  not 
move  for  us  also,  M'sieu?  Wherefore  is  it  always 
for  me  the  same?" 

Palmer  put  him  down.  The  pitiful  question 
stirred  strange  misgivings  within  him.  Above  the 
voice  of  his  grim  disappointment,  they  called  aloud 
in  his  heart.  The  eternal  struggle  between  belief 
and  judgment  wrung  him  now  as  it  was  fated  to 


The  Rending  of  the  Veil  439 

wring  him,  tortured  yet  unyielding,  through  the 
dark  years  to  come. 

The  little  landing  jutted  high,  a  black  shelf  above 
the  glancing  night  of  flood  and  shadow.  Diane  and 
Rose  stood  to  one  side,  hand  locked  in  steadfast 
hand.  There  was  nothing  left  to  be  spoken  between 
them.  It  was  all  said  and  done.  For  all  her  love, 
Rose  had  no  parting  message.  For  all  her  trust, 
Diane  could  frame  no  promise  of  farewell.  The 
future  closed  in  upon  their  hearts.  Its  inexorable 
certainties  left  no  room  for  pledges  of  to-morrow. 

To  each  her  own  hopes ;  to  each  her  memories  and 
her  dreams.  For  Diane,  the  vision  of  the  brimming 
years  to  come;  the  years  when  she  and  Channing, 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  should  meet  the  forces  of 
poverty  and  failure,  and  should  conquer,  ever 
shoulder  to  shoulder;  the  years  when  they  should 
rear  their  home  in  that  far,  dark  prairie,  small  and 
poor  and  plain,  yet  a  light  unto  the  feet  of  them 
that  passed,  a  shelter  and  a  temple.  The  years 
when  they  should  labour,  hard  pressed  and  sore  at 
heart,  through  the  storm  which  must  whelm  the 
country  of  their  love.  The  autumn  years  of  full 
content,  and  peace,  and  joy. 

For  Rose — no  vision,  alas!  Final  and  bitterest 
sacrifice,  she  had  put  aside  her  right  to  dream. 
Yet,  in  her  sweet  bravery,  she  could  be  glad  in  the 
gladness  of  another;  and  led  by  her  most  unselfish 
love,  she  should  come  at  last  into  her  peace  of 
renunciation. 


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